directing confused students to their destination. My own new office was a wonder – a window! – and the shiny furniture seemed a compensation for my lack of a functioning telephone; the line was dead, one of a hundred little things to be addressed as we occupied our new space. Within a week, something like a routine emerged, dead phones and other glitches were sorted out, students figured out the floor plan, and we went about our business. On September 11, 2001, nobody went about their business. For those of us who were work-
ing in the Edwards College on that Tuesday morning, the stories begin with “I was teaching class, and a student came in to report…” or “I was in a meeting, and when it broke up somebody asked if I’d heard…” or “I was driving into campus, and they broke in on the radio to announce…” There were many televisions in the Edwards building in 2001; they were ubiquitous, heavy 25-inch monitor/VCR combos with black plastic casings, strapped to steel carts, parked in almost every classroom. But it had occurred to nobody to
install cable television, so as the news filtered in, mostly by telephone, none of us saw the disaster unfold on live video. Many people stayed by their computers, refreshing the feed from CNN.com, but the web was overwhelmed that day. I recall Professor Don Millus, Shakespearian scholar and inveterate baseball-gamelistener, producing a battery-powered radio from a desk drawer. It was an artifact from another era–a transistor radio with a telescoping antenna and a single, fierce, two-inch speaker. Faculty gathered around Don’s office
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