By Courtney Cooperman ’16, Editor-in-Chief

Shoes on, coat zipped, ticket waiting on the counter, I asked my mom if she was ready to leave for the train station. She looked away from the TV and told me that she was uneasy about sending me to New York City for the evening, that there was some breaking news from Paris – it was too early to know the scale and significance of the tragedy. Reluctantly accepting the change of plans, I sat down in front of the TV, not knowing that I would remain there for hours.

I watched as details crystallized and new footage poured in. Governments and experts admitted their cluelessness; when I searched for an explanation or interpretation, it was alarming to realize that there was no Google result. The world was finding out along with me. I felt powerless in my inability to understand, echoing the world’s powerlessness to undo.

I found it difficult to process that every revision to the death toll was so much more than the adjustment of a number. As I watched, I found it easier to speculate about political implications than to grapple with the senseless loss of life. Thoughts about context and consequences blocked out the difficulty of grief.

In studying history, we generally have access to clear-cut start and end dates. In helplessly watching history in the making, we have no such luxury of confidence. One of the most unsettling feelings of the night was uncertainty. I was consumed by the terrifying prospect that this was not over, praying that no more dreadful events would unfurl. The lingering possibility of more breaking news, from Paris or anywhere else in the world, haunted me. No matter how polarizing and painful, there would be some solace in declaring it time for analysis, debate, and reflection.

I was born in New York City and have never been to Paris, but for the rest of the night and the next few days, one realization underscored every thought and conversation: “This is my 9/11.” Like my parents and grandparents recall from that day, I will remember where I sat in paralyzed shock and tried to understand, realizing how significantly this would change my world and struggling to swallow the extent of the tragedy.

That Monday, I hoped to transition from the initial shock of Paris to the anticipated stability of aftermath. Pulling up to Newark Academy mid-evacuation did not help with that transition. Shaking, I drove past school and continued down South Orange Avenue. (I nervously sang along to “Where Is The Love?” by the Black-Eyed Peas, and the words felt far too real.)

A worrisome, harmless hour of detour is certainly not comparable to real terrorism in Paris, Beirut, or anywhere else in the world. But in my initial reaction, the bomb scare was reminiscent of the uncertainty that I felt on Friday, November 13^th. When the campus entrance was blocked by emergency vehicles and Starbucks was recommended as an alternative destination, I knew there was no clear idea of what came next. In this case, my fears quickly dissolved and most of my questions were answered. Regarding Paris, I am still realizing and struggling and shaking.

I know I cannot begin to understand the grief that so many families and friends are experiencing; my reaction to Paris has been empty of personal loss. Although I have no wisdom or extraordinary story to offer, I feel compelled to recognize the difficult process of simply sorting through recent events, as The Minuteman continues to sort through the opinions and analyses that will be published in the next few weeks. Paris is a turning point in history, and for me, Paris has been a personal turning point in realizing the uncertainty of the world.

As we engage in larger conversations about addressing terrorism, we should not forget to recognize and simply validate the ways that we cope and respond as individuals, and as members of a supportive international community.