Fourteen years and eleven hours ago, I was in graduate school. It was the second year of a three-year program, I was getting married in three months, and I expected that Tuesday to be like any other. During my first class, whispers emerged about something going on — a bombing, I heard first. By the break between classes, there was a TV set up in the student lounge and we had started to learn about planes hitting the World Trade Center. The Pentagon was hit during my second class, and rumors about other attacks were rampant.