The French had written in their papers, “Today we are all Americans.”

I had turned eighteen a few months previous of September 11th. It was my Freshmen year of college; my first time away from home; my first taste of real freedom. No more curfew. No more nag, nag, nag about getting homework done. I could play my music as loud as I wanted. I could stay up until the crack of dawn if I so pleased. I could do all the things that I couldn’t do at home.

That morning I had drug myself, zombie-eyed, out of bed. My roommate, who had left an hour earlier, had kept her alarm clock screaming to push me along. Somehow, I trudged into the living room where my other roommate was paralyzed in front of the television. I thought she was watching some action thriller, but it only took a moment to realize that this wasn’t any movie.

Drowsiness melted as gooseflesh mounted my arms. My stomach curled, and I slumped down beside my roommate.

“A plane…” was all she could muster.

We watched in horror, as only moments later, the second plane crashed.

My hand caught my mouth, and I turned my face away.

The rest of the day was chaos. Classes were canceled. Wherever a television was the news was on. Wherever a radio sat the news sounded. Peoples’ faces were distorted with confusion, anger, pain, and sorrow.

I didn’t know what to think.

That night I sat alone on the front steps. It was a clear night. I could see all the constellations, but didn’t know how to point any out. New York’s sky wouldn’t be clear. It would be foggy and black and still rummaging through bedlam.

I rubbed at my chin and bowed my head.

It was my Freshman year of college; my first time away from home-- and I suddenly realized…

I had no clue what freedom was.