Horror After Horror

A moment to feel the heft of our collective sorrow

Twenty-four years ago today, I was a 19-year-old college sophomore who had just taken my seat in the sign language course in which I was enrolled. I remember my professor entered the room late. She flipped on the TV that was mounted in the corner of the room (do you remember those classroom TVs?). When she spoke, the pitch of her voice matched her rising franticness. Her husband, she explained, worked at the Pentagon. Class was dismissed.

This morning, now 43, my first-born child only four years younger than I was that day, the world feels nearly as bleak.