LAUSR

Karen Staller’s opening editorial reminds us of the extent to which our selective recollections influence the lived experience. Regardless of how accurately we remember things, the meanings we ascribe to life events persist and guide what we do and how we interpret the future. Throughout this pandemic maelstrom, I frequently find myself thinking about another tragedy that brought society to a screeching halt—that fateful day in 2001, when two airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, a third hit the Pentagon just outside Washington, D.C., and a fourth, redirected by the valiant passengers, crashed in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. The horrific event occurred on Tuesday, a beautiful day in late summer; the weather was temperate, not a cloud in the sky, and one could sense the approaching autumn in the air. I remember that day well. It was the second day of my qualifying exam, a significant rite of passage in doctoral studies that represents the culmination of an intense period of study and the prelude to the dissertation proposal, the only pathway to the dissertation itself. These milestones are more than hoops to jump through; they are a series of apprentice tasks that demonstrate a higher level of independent work at each pass. I had spent my entire summer preparing for this all-important exam, a take-home test composed of four questions, which required carefully crafted essay responses completed within an allotted five-day period. During this period of examination, I had planned to seclude myself within the sanctuary of my little studio apartment, newly converted as a shrine dedicated to my required reading materials, neatly stacked and christened with countless highlighted passages, scribbled notes, and dog-eared pages. Amidst this scholarly devotion, I had included occasional outings to the Regenstein library, just to