I was walking from English to Calculus my senior year at Danville High School when the first plane hit. Apparently, the administrators at our school told the teachers not to tell us about the attack or turn on the TVs, but thankfully, my Calculus teacher Mr. Moore never listened to them anyways. After sitting down in class, seeing Mr. Moore watching the TV, and realizing what was on it, shock set in, followed by panic a few beats later. At that time, my sister was in grad school in New York, and lived only a few blocks from the World Trade Center. A friend went with me to the office, where I got in touch with my parents to make sure my sister was okay. She was; in fact, she and her roommates spent the day helping people off the street and into their building to clean off and letting them use their phones to call loved ones. My mom was out of town, so my aunt checked me out of school, and once I was home, I called my brother, who was in New Zealand to tell him the news. It was very early there, and he and his girlfriend had just found out, but wanted more details. I read them the information off TV, but when my brother asked me why the attacks happened, I had no answer. My dad came home early from work that day and we sat and watched the news for hours in silence, trying to figure it out.
Where were you?