Lost in Translation

I was in Spanish class, and we were all joking around like we usually did. Someone came in with a sheet of paper for Señor Carlos. He looked it over and decided that he would translate it into Spanish. After all, this was Spanish class.

His mood was normal, and the bits I picked up were that a plane had hit some building in New York. And that if anyone needed counseling, to go to the main office.

Everyone laughed a bit—I don’t remember exactly what was going through our heads, but it seemed pretty random, and a lot was lost in the translation. Which building? What kind of plane? Why would anyone need counseling?

It wasn’t until I left that classroom that what had happened really sunk in. My high school was in New Jersey, and my friends were talking about whose parents worked in the World Trade Center, and if they had heard from them yet. Another one of my friends said he had been in Economics class in the computer lab when the first plane hit, and the teacher turned on the TV to watch the news, and they all watched as the second plane hit.

I don’t really remember what else happened that day. I mostly remember feeling ashamed afterwards that we had laughed when we heard the news in Spanish.