I was newly engaged, student-teaching a class of first-graders. I was leaving school to go to my afternoon college class. I was going to celebrate my one-year anniversary with my fiance (now hubby). I heard the radio in the school office. I didn't understand.
I listened in my car on the way to my class, and had to pull over onto the side of the road. My aunts worked at the Twin Towers. My dad travels to the Pentagon as part of his job. I didn't understand.
Classes are canceled for the rest of the day as those around me burst into hysterics. I walk into my house and turn on Fox News; I sit for hours watching the clips replay over and over. I didn't understand.
I hold a stack of worksheets painstakingly done by six-year-olds. I find myself writing the sequence of events onto one of the papers. I sense what I am seeing and hearing is important. I didn't understand.
Seven years later, I know the sequence of events, I know what happened. I know the motivation, I know who was responsible. I know what we, as a country, have done to support each other in the aftermath. But I still don't understand.