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. Feeling drained from the intense challenge of being a music student, I made my way to the main office to resolve some scheduling issues. To my surprise, I found everyone huddled behind the counter, fixated on a television. Although I couldn’t see what was happening, the sound of a news broadcast filled the air, and I thought to myself, “Wow, they’re really slacking off instead of working.”
I asked impatiently if someone could assist me. A young woman turned, her expression blank, and said, “The World Trade Center is down.”
“Are you saying the stock market crashed?” I replied, unable to comprehend that she meant the building had collapsed. “Skyscrapers don’t just fall!”
“No, the building has collapsed. It’s gone. Just…gone.”
I struggled to visualize such a massive structure crumbling. Surely, people had evacuated in time, right? There had to have been some sort of warning. Was there an earthquake?
Suddenly, the room erupted with gasps and cries. Someone was sobbing. I hadn’t realized it yet, but that was the moment the second tower fell.
My heart raced as the atmosphere shifted from confusion to a thick, terrifying silence. The reporter on the screen mentioned the word “terrorist,” and I felt my throat tighten, caught between the urge to cry and the need to maintain my composure. Backing away from the room, the word “terrorist” echoed in my mind.
I wouldn’t fully grasp the gravity of the situation until after lunch. Lacking a television, I waited for my roommate, who had the only one in our eight-bedroom rental. Among us, I was the sole American citizen.
Sitting there with my seven international roommates, I felt like an outsider as we watched those horrifying images unfold—people jumping from windows, planes crashing into buildings, and the twin towers collapsing in a loop. One of my roommates voiced, “I guess it was only a matter of time before something like this happened in America.”
I snapped at her to be quiet. I was too close to the screen, tears streaming down my face, shaking uncontrollably. My roommates left me to my grief.
Although I had never considered myself particularly patriotic, something shifted in me that day. I now recognize that my roommates were just as shocked as I was, grappling with an unimaginable tragedy. But in that moment, more than ever before, I felt distinctly American. I stood in solidarity with the victims, the frantic individuals trying to escape, the first responders, and those who were saying their last goodbyes over the phone. I will always remember that profound sense of unity born from shared suffering.
Today, on this fourteenth anniversary of 9/11, let’s take a moment to reflect on where we were, what we witnessed, and how we felt during those initial moments of horror. Share your story, whatever it may be, as it’s an essential part of this collective experience. Pass on your memories to future generations so they can understand the depth of this loss with us. After all, we promised, right? Never forget.
This article was originally published on Sep. 11, 2015.