It was shortly after 10:00 a.m. when I emerged from my Music Theory placement exam at the University of Cincinnati College Conservatory of Music. I felt mentally drained, reflecting on the demanding nature of being a music student. As I trudged to the main office to sort out some administrative matters with my schedule, I noticed everyone behind the counter huddled together, absorbed in a television broadcast. I couldn’t see what was on but could hear the urgent tones of a news program. I thought to myself, How unprofessional to be watching the news instead of working.
I approached them, my irritation evident, and asked if someone could assist me. A girl turned around, her expression empty, and said, “The World Trade Center has fallen.”
“Are you talking about a stock market crash?” I replied in disbelief. She couldn’t possibly mean that the buildings had actually collapsed. Skyscrapers don’t just “fall down.”
“No. The building collapsed. It’s gone. There’s… nothing left.”
I struggled to comprehend the image of such a massive structure crumbling. Surely, people must have escaped in time, right? There had to have been some sort of warning—was there an earthquake?
Suddenly, the room erupted into gasps and cries. I heard someone whimpering. Unbeknownst to me, that marked the moment the second tower fell.
The atmosphere shifted; my heart raced, pounding in my head. The room became eerily silent, filled with a thick tension. I heard the word “terrorist” on the broadcast, and my throat tightened, the familiar ache of wanting to cry while suppressing it took over. I stepped back, the echo of “terrorist” following me like a haunting refrain.
I didn’t grasp the full extent of the tragedy until after lunch. Lacking a TV in my room, I waited for my roommate to return and unlock his door—the only room in our eight-bedroom house equipped with a television. As the only American citizen among my seven foreign roommates, I felt like an outsider as we gathered around that small screen, witnessing the horror unfold: fellow Americans leaping from windows, planes crashing into buildings, and the majestic twin towers collapsing on repeat. One of my roommates remarked, “I guess it was only a matter of time before something like this happened in America.”
I told her to be quiet. I sat too close to the TV, tears streaming down my face, trembling. My roommates quietly gave me space.
Though I had never considered myself particularly patriotic, in that moment, I truly understood the meaning of allegiance. I now realize that my roommates were just as shocked as I was, struggling to process such an unimaginable catastrophe. Yet, that day, more than any other before or since, I felt profoundly… American. I was connected to the victims, those on the planes, the people trapped in the buildings, the first responders, and the terrified individuals racing through the streets. I shared in the anguish of loved ones on the other end of phone calls, knowing their time was limited and wanting to express their final words before the line went silent. That feeling of unity born from shared suffering is something I will never forget.
As we mark the anniversary of 9/11, let us take a moment to reflect on where we were, what we witnessed, and how we felt during those harrowing initial moments of disbelief. Today, share your story, whatever it may be, as it serves as a valid account of that tragic day. Let’s pass down our experiences to future generations, allowing them to grasp the weight of this loss alongside us. After all, we made a promise, didn’t we? We must never forget.
This article was originally published on Sep. 11, 2015.
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