Below is a transcription of a speech given by Dr. Stockham during MS and US Assemblies: 

Thank you for that introduction. I’m glad to be here, and I’m glad so many of you are in uniform! Back in my day, blazers were required for assembly, so I think a hoodie is a nice change.

When Ms. Lund asked me to speak on September 11th, I initially despaired. Of course, I couldn’t tell her that. I’m always willing to help out, but why me, on this day? Probably because I’m a historian and I could bring some context to the discussion. Or because I’ve done a bit of research into intelligence agencies, which entirely shifted focus on that Tuesday morning. But those things don’t seem like enough. Instead, I want to focus on place. And how those places shape your story. So let me start with this place (referencing slide with a map of De Pere, Wisconsin).

This place…De Pere, Wisconsin. It’s a town split down the middle by the Fox River. On its west bank lies St. Norbert College, a small school tied to three traditions—the Catholic, the Norbertine, and the liberal arts. That Tuesday morning, this is where I was, heading to a staff meeting with other members of the Student Affairs office. You see, right after college, I became a Residence Hall Advisor at St. Norbert, where I managed two dorms—one, now called Gries Hall and the other, Victor McCormick Hall. This place (referencing a photo of an apartment building on a college campus).

My apartment was on the ground floor, in the upper left part of this image. When I worked there, those trees didn’t exist. That was basically a muddy puddle. I moved in late in August because the Green Bay Packers take over this building for most of August for training camp. The head coach at the time, Mike Sherman, stayed in my apartment. Just across the way was Brett Favre’s room, which was a favorite stop for all of the Wisconsin students.

Anyway, Tuesday morning was our weekly 8am staff meeting, and I walked the 2 blocks to the housing office. It was a brilliant Wisconsin fall morning. The sun was shining and my head was still spinning with all of the excitement of the first weeks of school. There were events to plan, resident advisors to train, and new people to get to know.

About 1000 miles away, there was another place.

This is New York City’s MTA subway map (referencing a map of the NYC subway system). I knew this map because my brother, Alex, sent it to me via email to show me his commute. Mine was a two-block walk. His involved multiple trains and busses traveling from Brooklyn into Manhattan. He’d start on a bus in his Polish neighborhood, Greenpoint, then transfer to the J or Z train to Manhattan, where he’d transfer at Fulton St to the uptown A or C train. Those trains took him to the west side of Manhattan, just north of Wall Street and under the World Trade Center. His commute took about 45 minutes, but he always used to brag about how much reading he’d get done on the train. It was his first job out of college, too. He worked as a writer at a magazine and lived a very New York life. We hadn’t spoken much since school began, but I was excited for him.

There is one last place to share.

This is Dakar, the capital of Senegal (referencing a map of Dakar). That September morning was a September afternoon here. My girlfriend had just started a semester abroad, which started in Dakar but would eventually move into the interior of Senegal. In Dakar, she lived with a host family. She stayed on the upper floor of an apartment building owned by her host father. Each level was occupied by a different one of his wives—the top floor reserved for his first wife. In these days of the early internet, email wasn’t yet solid in Dakar. The best way I could communicate was through actual letters, but the Postal Service took months. Instead, I sent letters via UPS at $30 a pop. I tried to write weekly, but I admit I fell behind once school started.

And just how far away is Dakar from Wisconsin? Or New York? This far (referencing a map of the Atlantic Ocean).

That’s an entire Atlantic Ocean! Interestingly, though, Dakar sticks out on a little peninsula that is the closest piece of land to the United States in the Old World.

As I walked into that staff meeting, I was greeted by the administrative assistant, who had the large TV tuned to NBC’s Today Show. This struck me as odd, though we’d only had 1 or 2 staff meetings previously, so maybe I just missed something. I remember looking, and seeing what I thought was a horrible accident. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. How could the pilot have made such a grave error?

While the news switched between live images of people fleeing the area and the plane strike, I just kept wondering how this could happen?

And, then, a second plane hit. And it became clear this wasn’t an accident. Quickly, my thoughts took me away from Wisconsin. To New York City. And Dakar. You see, my girlfriend was from New York.

I didn’t have a cell phone, so I actually walked back to my apartment to use the landline. I called my parents first, but they didn’t answer. I then tried my brother, but all I got was a busy signal. I sprinted back to the office, wondering what we needed to do for our students. No one seemed to know if we had any students from New York. Should we book them flights? No, flights wouldn’t work; no planes were allowed in the air. Bus tickets? Should they even go back to New York? Where was their place now? Where was my place?

The first few hours were breathless like that. I tried to remain calm, but couldn’t seem to latch onto any one thing. The College cancelled classes and had students return to their rooms or to common areas. We created makeshift counselling centers so students could process. That was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. I remember, though, worrying students would take this as an excuse to get into trouble, so I asked my resident advisors to remain vigilant even though it was the last thing on anyone’s mind. I was really concerned about the men’s hockey players who lived in Victor McCormick. See, they were Canadian and who knew if this would matter to them at all?

But my mind kept returning to that MTA subway map and my brother’s commute. What time did he leave again? Was it 6:30am? 7:30am?

And then my phone rang, at about 11:30am local time. It was my brother. I remember he said, “Dude, did you see? Someone attacked the World Trade Center!” I told him the world had seen, but I was worried about him. He told me he had been on the subway, but was transferring when the planes struck. The system was shut down and he walked, across the Brooklyn Bridge, back home. He’d called my parents to let them know he was fine, and then called me.

Remember when I said the world had seen just a second ago? Well, that’s not entirely true. In Dakar, they hadn’t seen. At least, not immediately. Eventually, my girlfriend was contacted by the study abroad program coordinators and the American embassy. All of the American students were brought to the embassy because many, like my girlfriend, had connections to New York and the embassy was doing all they could to connect students to their families.

I didn’t know about that until weeks later, when I received another letter, stamped with Air Mail (in French). I also learned that Senegal mourned with the USA because President Bill Clinton had traveled to Senegal a few years earlier and charmed the country. My girlfriend told me she’d stay for the semester, but only because she’d spoken with her parents and no one she knew had been killed. Other students left.

Looking back with 25-plus years of hindsight, I’m struck by the incompleteness of my memories. I don’t remember a lot about that day. The overwhelming emotion that still rises up and catches in my throat is a whirling chaos. But I remember these three places clearly. I remember the leaves turning in De Pere, with the excitement of a new Green Bay Packers season. I remember the trains halting and my brother’s walk in New York. And I remember the people of Senegal embracing those Americans in their midst.

3 places. Worlds apart. But, somehow, collaged in my memory. Together.