On September 11th, I was in my school cafeteria when the first plane struck the North Tower. When the Boston Marathon bomb went off, I was on Twitter, watching tweets devolve from frivolous to frantic, the story unfolding before my eyes in real-time. And as the calamitous events in Paris on Wednesday terrorized the city, I again sat rapt before my social feeds as every shot, cry, tear and expression of fear distorted France’s narrative. Never will I forget. The week of Galette des Rois became a week of national questioning and grief so mighty that perfect strangers gripped one another in hysterics, aching with loss. I live but a ten minute walk from the Charlie Hebdo office in the 11th arrondissement. As much as I felt heartache for America as innocent lives were shaken and lost in Boston, I was completely inert, thunderstruck by what was happening in my neighborhood.
With my colleagues, we sat slack jawed all day as the story developed. The atmosphere was heavy and grim but we watched intently as the #jesuischarlie sentiment took form and mushroomed into a veritable movement. By that evening, 35,000 people gathered at Place de la République for an improvised vigil and the…
