10 seconds.

I was on my way to Civil Rights. Late, as usual, with my open computer in one arm, oversized, overstuffed bag slung over the other, and scarf trailing almost on the floor behind me. I was also clutching the final paper that I had just finished in one hand, crinkling it until it must have looked like I wrote it a year ago and found it under a couch cushion just a few moments ago. My boots have no traction and so I slid on the marble lobby floor as I was rounding the corner, balancing my luggage to catch my elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door was already opened and I stepped in and took a deep breath.
Still a little bit happy that I got to have jamaican food for lunch. Anxious and warm from rushing to the elevator. Scared that my paper wouldn't be good enough. I glanced up at the screen in the upper left corner of the elevator to see what time it was. 5:04. Four minutes late? Not too bad. Above the time are fun facts, or CNN headlines, and sometimes even celebrity birthdays or 15 minute dinner recipes. Today it was a CNN headline. A two year old from Mumbai survived a shooting that killed his mother, father and siblings. His nanny rescued him and escaped the open fire without injury.
The next ten seconds of the ride slowed down. I was standing still in what I imagined was Mumbai, in the middle of the dirt street watching a small rundown house crammed in among other shacks and homes. Gunmen with brown skin and dirty camouflage suits, bullet proof vests and hard helmets rushed down the street and looked through me at the house. I could hear gun shots down the street but no one had fired here yet. A woman was in the small yard hanging wet tshirts over a string above the window when they approached, and her eyes grew wide. She grabbed the basket and didn't have time to turn around. Shots were fired and she crumpled to the ground leaving her life on the wall behind her. I felt dizzy and they rushed into the house and I heard a man yelling in tones that translated perfectly into English. Shot, shot, shot, shot. Silence. Crashing, the faint pounding of feet on stairs. Blam, blam, blam, blam. The sky spun and I stood still.
Out of a side window crawled a woman clutching a tiny child. She was covering his mouth and his eyes were wide. He couldn't breathe. But he wasn't bleeding and so I breathed. She ran onto the narrow road over broken bottles and piles of trash. She ran through me and a pleasant bell rung.
The doors of the elevator opened and I was on the fifteenth floor. Heading to a beige room with a mahogany table and huge windows. To listen to presentations about civil rights organizations. Organizations like the Polyamorous Society where adults fight and protest for the right to be respected in having legitamite three or more parnter sexual relationships. The group holds snuggle sessions and swinger's parties where you can hook up with multiple partners without the pain and fear of society's rejection. Parade's where women make out with other women and then their husbands, and then their husbands' boyfriends. And feminist groups who protest any laws that would deter young women from having abortions. They pound their fists and say, "No they shouldn't have to tell their parents! No they shouldn't have to be over sixteen!" Some of the more enthusiastic members even weep when they plead, "These are our basic rights people! We are sick of being oppressed and silenced! Give us freedom, give us freedom!"
And the room spins for me again. Inside of four insulated walls on rolling chairs with arm rests sit about thirty of us. Toying around on our laptops and tuning in to hear about activist groups that want affirmative action, abortion rights, communism, to be protected in their sexual choices by the federal government. We are educated 20 and 23 year old college students. Presentation after presentation.
Break for pizza. Garlic knots.
But for ten seconds I was somewhere else, seeing something else, and I can't make it stop. Can't bring myself fully back to midtown Manhattan and listen to a language that is my own in tones that I can't understand. Fight for what? I see a wide eyed little brown baby, and the strong hand of his nanny slapped hard over his mouth to keep him from screaming. To keep him from dying. It hurt when she hit him, and he'll be mad when she finally puts him down. His momma is dead now. So is papa.
If he's lucky he won't remember. But I will. And I can't come back yet.