By Keith Delany '02

A month ago, my sister lost an old and cherished friend. She went to school with Lindsey her whole life; they sat together at their elementary school graduation and at their college graduation. She was twenty-three when she died. On Thursday, September 13, when I learned that we were going to her funeral, I wondered how her parents could know she was dead-she could just be missing. Lindsey's parents knew, because as the building collapsed, Lindsey was on the phone with her dad. She was trapped above where the plane hit, and had frantically called home. The horrific thing about this situation is that there are thousands more stories just like this. We lost so much.

Now we are dealing with the aftermath. For days the news has been filled with live coverage, with new reports, and also with the same stories. After so much, I honestly couldn't watch or listen anymore. I took a break from the tragedy, and tried to get on with my own life. Now a few weeks later, I feel ashamed. By ignoring it, I lessen its importance; I make it insignificant for me, even though I tell myself this is the most significant period of my life. But it hasn't hit home. It's not world changing because in the past month it hasn't changed my life directly, and I know that there are others who feel the exact same way. Imagine those Americans living in Podunk, Kansas, who have never been to New York. They don't know and neither do I.

On September 11, 2001, America was attacked. It really is as simple as that. Yes, it is a tragedy. Yes, terrorists hijacked planes. Yes, Lindsey died. America is mixed up with emotions. Who wouldn't be when so much has been lost; the twin towers, planes, the Pentagon, lives. We are dealing with grief, compassion, love, fear, and hate, all the most basic and instinctual feel-ings in the human body. We love what we have lost. We fear what has hap-pened to us. We grieve over the tragedy.

September 11 changed my life, however, as it did millions of others. I was blessed not to have any close family harmed, but around 11:30 that morning I didn't know that. Like all the other students I scrambled for my cell phone. First I called my dad to make sure he hadn't gone to New York on business. After making sure he was okay, I tried again and again to get through to my sister in New York. I tried for an hour and finally made it. She was all right; my entire family was safe. Still, as I watched over and over again the plane hit that second tower, I was filled with a desperate grief and a fiery hate. I wanted revenge.

I went to history class instead, and as I sat down in my seat, was amazed to see the whole class there. Some did not even know the location of their friends and family, but they still came to class. Ms. McConnell opened the floor and we attempted to rationalize it all. We had so few facts, all we had were the pictures. Still, there was no bloodthirsty cry for a strike back. Nobody said, "Let's go bomb Afghanistan back to the Middle Ages." The class simply wanted to know why someone would hate us so much to do such a thing. Supporting each other, we threw idea after idea into the air; stuck in my memory, those fifty minutes did more to bolster my awareness and understanding than any news show or politician.

After class, I went down to Bement where my nine-year-old sister Margot is in school to let her know that everyone in the family was all right. When I told her, she didn't seem to comprehend the vastness of what had happened. The U.S. had been attacked, and thousands had died. I wanted to make her understand, but I couldn't and neither could she.

That night I got a call from Fifi Baeshan, a Saudi Arab senior at UMASS. Her skin is the same shade as the terrorists on the plane so a few people got it in their heads that she was responsible for what had happened. No matter if she had lived all her life in Mississippi and was an American citizen. Simply because she was an Arab, she had to fear for her life. So I went down there with a baseball bat and picked Fifi up, she came back to my house and we stayed up talking. I would have done anything for her that night to take away her fear. She felt hated, and I felt ashamed that there are people who would do that to her.

Meanwhile, my life went on. My mom was trapped in Las Vegas, having been at at a business convention when the planes shut down, but I still had school to attend. I still had homework to finish. By and by, more pressing matters were at the forefront of my mind. I didn't have time to reflect or spend time in front of the television watching news.

The news also became increasingly less important to me. Seeing the same images repeatedly, it somehow became unreal, like a Rambo movie. I heard stories about little kids who, having seen the same footage over and over, built block towers then took their toy airplanes and smashed the towers down. I became anaesthetized by the repetition and routine of my life.

That changed, though, on the 22nd of month, the second Saturday after the attack. I went to pick my mom up from the airport-she had car-pooled all the way to Chicago, grabbing a plane from there. She had rushed, wanting to be back in time for the memorial service, but we ended up arriving just as the church was emptying. As I pulled up, I saw my sister gathered in a crowd of old classmates-a group Lindsey should have been a part of.

I wanted to end with some words of wisdom, something to ponder as you go, but people get through something like this their own way. Me? I am trying to confront it. I want to understand not just who or how, but why? Why would Usama bin Laden or anybody else do something like this? Why would God let it happen? If you have any answers, let me know.