Elizabeth Cook

I woke up late to a confusing sound. My alarm radio was set but it’s usual music didn’t wake me, there was just a lot of talk. I was camping out on my sister’s living room floor as I waited for residence to open up at my first year experience at the University of Guelph. An impulsive and regretful decision brought on by the death of my father the previous year.

On the radio I heard words of disbelief and anger and confusion but no one was saying what actually happened. I was scared. I didn’t know what was going on and I couldn’t get anyone on the phone to explain it to me.

It was all over the news when I got to school. In the cafeteria I stood numb, crying unabashedly at the scenes that unfolded over and over again. The plane crashes, the fires, and the collapse of the towers that took my breath away. I was left hollow. I have never felt so alone and I was terrified.

I had a class that evening, philosophy, and I could not understand how everyone could continue on about their lives like this was no big deal. Sure, we were far enough away from the States, but this act of terrorism affected everyone. We should be talking about it. We should be crying about it. We should be acknowledging it. But no. This class didn’t matter. Not today. However, that feeling remained and I feel into a deep depression that semester. The only semester I would attend. It didn’t matter.

Still, the memories of 9/11 haunt me and I was never directly affected by the tragedy. I didn’t lose a family member or friend. But I do feel we all lost a little bit of innocence that day, and that is trauma.