That’s what I was doing when I overheard two guys talking in the men’s bathroom in my dorm hall. Aerospace students, dressed smartly with combed hair. “This is huge,” one of them said.
I had just turned 20 at the University of North Dakota. After hearing them talk—about what I still wasn’t sure—I walked to my favorite class: Fiction, taught by Professor Robison. He was an ornery old fella, but funny and idiosyncratic. He was late, as always, in his black cardigan. While waiting for him to arrive, I remember the student who sat next to me. He wore a black leather jacket and a backwards Chicago Cubs hat. I thought the blue and black was a cool combo. I wondered if I could ever pull off that look.
When Professor Robison finally showed up, he was visibly upset. He told us to go back to our dorms and turn on the television. He said this day would be remembered for the rest of time.
I thought maybe he was being a bit dramatic. That’s quite a thing to say. I still didn’t really understand what was going on. I hadn’t seen any footage.
My roommate Joe and I didn’t have a TV in our room, so we went to the cafeteria and watched the one mounted high in the corner. We spent the day watching the news and eating overcooked lasagna. I remember the Grand Forks local news did their evening segment, and everyone laughed. Some student shouted, “Yeah, Grand Forks, tell us what happened today.”
Most of us in the U.S. who are old enough remember exactly what we were doing when we first heard the news.
What’s interesting to me about events like that—the ones that freeze time—is that we don’t remember where we were the very next day.
What were you doing on September 12th? It was only one day later, but I don’t remember brushing my teeth or what class I had. I don’t remember what I ate, who I was with, or anything specific.
It’s strange, but these extraordinary events are like a signal to your brain: remember as much of the ordinary as you can. Remember who you were with, the colors you noticed, the words people said—even while you brushed your teeth.
As if ordinary life is what matters most.
And maybe it is.
Love,
Aaron