I usually like to keep things fluffy on here but I think if I put this in writing, maybe I can release it from creeping back into my mind each year when we mark the anniversary of that terrible day. Bear with me as I reflect on those 24 hours, as seen through my eyes.
I was a Resident Hall Director at Mitchell College in New London, Connecticut. It's a school primarily comprised of students with learning differences and some mental and physical disabilities.
That Tuesday morning started like any other: me rushing around my apartment to get ready to head to upper campus for our department meeting. i received a phone call that morning from my boyfriend at the time who told me, "Turn on the news! Some idiot just crashed a plane into the World Trade Center." This was 8:46am, 14 minutes until our staff meeting.
I headed up to campus and found the majority of those who would've been attending my meeting gathered around the TV in the lounge of Saunders Hall. At this time, the second plane hit, as we all watched.
As the only Jersey girl who grew up within the shadow of the NYC skyline on staff, I was handed a paper roster and a highlighter to go through the lists to find any students on campus who are from the NJ/NY/CT tri-state area who could have had family members working in the towers that day. My heart began to pound as I quickly realized just how much bright yellow ink I was putting down on that piece of paper. We had a potentially big problems on our hands at our tiny little school.
We were informed to make ourselves visible in our residence halls for the duration of the day, and to keep a TV or radio tuned in for news updates. As the situation became abundantly clear that this was indeed an attack on our country, we were informed to tell our residents to check in and out with us if they were heading off campus, so we were able to account for anyone at anytime.
My CITY, my VIEW, my COUNTRY, and my PEOPLE were under attack. I wasn't there; couldn't have gotten there if I had to, after all, all the bridges and tunnels were closed. After many attempts, I was finally able to speak to my grandmother on the phone briefly and then a few minutes later I reached my mom. I knew they were okay so life could go on.
My responsibility was for four Victorian homes along the waterfront of the Thames River, filled with about 100 students. The weather that day was impeccable - a nice breeze and a perfect 76 degrees. I set up a table on the front porch of one my homes and watched through the open window as Dan Rather reported there was another plane missing and a fire at the Pentagon.
Our campus's location on Thames River put us just upstream from the Groton Naval Sub Base and the US Coast Guard Academy and directly across the river from General Dynamics' Electric Boat divisions - where they manufacture nuclear-powered submarines. There was enough concentrated nuclear energy on that little river to pose an extreme threat. The base was mobilized and one by one the subs in port went out to sea. 100 miles west of our military community, the Towers fell.
Throughout the day I spoke with residents about news updates, asked of their families, calmed their worries about classes going on, and immersed myself in their needs as well as Dan Rather's reports.
My only break from the TV was to go back to upper campus for a quickly-put-together prayer service. Our religiously diverse campus all gathered in one all-purpose room, on folding chairs around a piano that hadn't been tuned in years, and prayed, sang, and cried together with one voice of worry and heartache. It didn't matter if you were a Dean, Professor, student with traumatic brain injury, visually or audibly impaired, everyone was experiencing the same level of heartache and confusion at that time.
I don't remember what I ate that day; I actually don't think I did. I remember what I wore and never wore that outfit again - not like that helped. When nightfall came upon us I retired to my apartment and turned on my TV to see more of the latest news - none of it any better than 14 hours earlier. At 11pm on September 11th, I cried for the first time all day. After having taking care of my residents all day, my shield wore away and it was time to take care of myself. It was my turn to process the day.
I didn't sleep much that night. Out of the three bedrooms in my apartment, I stayed on my couch because it was the fastest way out of my apartment in an emergency and the thought of closing my eyes and not knowing if something would attack us in the darkness of night never allowing me to open them again scared me beyond sleep. So I laid there, listened to the familiar sound of Dan Rather's voice, prayed, shivered, and cried, waiting for the sun to rise again and hoping it was all just a really long, bad dream.
At the end of the day, the community of Mitchell College lost a little girl enrolled in our early childhood care center on campus and her mom. While gravely unfortunate, we had no student's immediate family lost and that was a rarity for schools in the tri-state area.
At the end of the day, the community of Mitchell College lost a little girl enrolled in our early childhood care center on campus and her mom. While gravely unfortunate, we had no student's immediate family lost and that was a rarity for schools in the tri-state area.
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