I find it hard to believe that it has been eight years since terrorists used airplanes as people-packed missiles to attack fundamental landmarks of our nation.  The attacks of September 11, 2001, upon the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on either the Capitol or White House still remain a scary event in my life.

The day that it happened was in the first few weeks of my college life at University of Maryland.  That morning, I had a 9AM Intro to Shakespeare class in the fine arts building.  Being a typical college student, I literally rolled out of bed, grabbed my things, and made my way toward class.  I had no clue about what had happened at right around the moment I got out of my dorm high-rise.  American Airlines Flight 11 had been flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center.

As I got closer to the classroom building, it appeared that the news had not spread.  Activity was normal on campus.  I walked into my class - fully prepared to keep as quiet as I could about the Shakespeare I didn’t fully understand from the night prior.

About fifteen minutes into the class, a fellow student walked into the classroom late.  The professor, who was maybe ten years older than I was, asked why she was late.  The student said, “Sorry, traffic was bad.  I heard that some plane hit the World Trade Center.”

The professor looked concerned and confused.  “Do you know what kind of plane?”

The tardy student wasn’t certain.  “I think it was one of those prop planes.”

Class resumed in the basement of the fine arts building, essentially enveloped in Shakespeare’s tragedies and shielded from what was unfolding not twenty miles from where we stood.  At 9:43, the American Airlines jetliner crashed into the Pentagon.

At 10:15, class was over and we all left to continue on with our day.  I grabbed the Diamondback - our second-rate student paper - and left to walk across the street to my next class, where I would do the crossword in the paper.  It was the only reason that I ever got the thing.

Parked along the side of the narrow, low-traffic road was a Ford F-150 truck.  Students were huddled around it as the radio was blarring loud enough so they could hear, but I couldn’t discern the audio.  Put on guard by that scene, I wondered what would draw so many people to what appeared to be a maintenance truck.

Entering the building of my next class, I walked to the classroom only to see a sign telling me that class had been canceled.  (Looking back, I can’t believe someone had to actually print that sign.)  Confused, I saw another faculty member leaving the classroom next door and asked her if my professor was sick, or what canceled class.

The professor simply put one hand on my shoulder and pointed with her other hand to the TV in the lobby of the building.

“Don’t you know what’s going on?”

I had no idea.  I walked over to the TV and read this new bottom-third crawl that must have been invented that day.  Trying to read that, and take in the pictures of burning buildings, replays of the footage captured by citizens who just happened to have handycams that day.  It was all too much, too fast.  But I realized something was horribly wrong.  And that I had to call somebody.

I tried to dial my mom or dad to see if they knew what was happening.  They had to, right?  But I couldn’t even dial out.  Everyone was trying to call everyone in their phone book to make sure they were still alive.  Hell, rumors were spreading that the terrorists were flying a plane to crash into the White House, College Park, and anywhere else near and dear to my heart.  What the fuck was going on here?!

With class canceled and no way to get a hold of people, I went back to the dorm room, turned on the TV, and cried.  I didn’t move for hours.  I just had to catch up on everything that had unfolded.

Phone numbers to call were scrolling across the screen.  But I can’t make a fuckin’ call!  What good was that to me?

The President was hovering in the atmosphere somewhere, uncertain about if he would land, where he would land, and what he could even bother to say at a time like this.  The Congress was singing on the steps of the Capitol and all I wanted for them was to get the hell out of there so they could be safe.  Journalists were reporting from atop buildings, on the ground, in their studios.  Citizen journalists were really born that day with their role of describing the true sense of terror that they were feeling - that I was feeling.

AOL Instant Messenger became my lifeline.  IMs were being sent and received confirming that my friends were still alive.  That’s how scary it was.  I wasn’t even angry yet.  I didn’t know who the enemy was, but I was certain that calm had not been restored.  It wouldn’t be for days, weeks, or months.  Depending on who you ask, some might tell you it took a year.

That day will always stand out for me, though.  It is still difficult for me to grasp how nineteen terrorists were able to grip a nation of nearly 300 million people in fear because of something us citizens may not have expected.  And I’m stunned at how that day made this country come together with a united front like we may never experience again.

And then how quickly it passed.