April 19, 1995

I was 22 years old, a senior in college. I vividly remember sitting on the couch in the living room of 1221 W. Abbott Street, eating a bowl of cereal and probably trying to decide whether to go to my morning class. My boyfriend was in the shower, and his radio was competing with my morning news. It was a Wednesday, I think, and it was a really pretty spring morning. I used to pack a back pack with books, pull my long hair up in a ponytail, and ride my bike the mile or so to campus, and I loved spring mornings then, too.

I was watching TV when the news came on with footage from Oklahoma City. I remember being so shocked and sad, especially for those children. I sat on the couch, captivated, crying, and missed my morning class so I could stay home and stare at the television and try to comprehend why something like this would happen.

My life has always been one of relative innocence, untouched by such horrible tragedy as those in Oklahoma City or New York City. Yet I will sit and watch coverage and cry and grieve for all of these people as if I knew them myself. And I still cry today for their loss, ten years later. There's something about the magnitude of the tragedies that I just can't wrap my mind around.

Why do people want to blow us up just to make a point? Why is that?