Yesterday, my nine-year old daughter asked me, "What actually happened on 9-11?" For many September 11th anniversaries I had provided her fairly vague responses when she asked about the memorial service at the 9-11 monument in town or the flags lining our main street. An already anxious child, I didn't want to feed her many fears and active "worst-case scenario" imagination. But last night, I could tell she was ready to know more. She wanted to know the truth. So she and I headed over to one of our favorite, most peaceful places, our community garden, so that I could tell her the story.
Thirteen years ago, I was in my second year as a high school English teacher in Westfield, New Jersey, an affluent suburb of New York City. It was a spectacular morning. Azure sky. Warm sun. Bustling hallways. My classroom was located adjacent to the main building in a portable. Though without functioning heating or cooling systems, I loved being outside of the fray in a little pop-up structure all our own. It was quiet, and we could learn loudly without interrupting those nearby. This haven, though, also isolated me from the PA system and general goings-on in the world.
At 8:46 a.m. I didn't know a plane had slammed into the World Trade Center, a short twenty miles from our school. I was introducing a unit to my eleventh graders on "The Dream and the Reality of America." I did not know our reality was already changing.
At 9:00 a.m. the bell rang, and my students left our portable to return to the main building as did I. I headed for hall duty. When I passed through the side entrance, I knew something was wrong. Students chattered urgently. Teachers huddled in doorways. I approached a colleague. "What is going on?" She told me a plane crashed into the North Tower. I recall feeling completely disorientated. I could not conjure an image of what that meant. I quickly shuffled to my homeroom hall duty location, right next to the counseling office.
At 9:07 a.m., the homeroom bell rang. By this time the South Tower had been pummeled by Flight 175. Our high school principal turned on the PA. I heard him say, "It appears as if America is under some kind of attack. A second plane has crashed into the World Trade Center." He offered some instructions on remaining calm, but no one listened. In the days before every teenager had a cell phone, they needed to use the main office phone to call home and check on the whereabouts of their parents. Their aunts. Their uncles. Their brothers. Their sisters. Their cousins. Their grandparents. They needed to know that all those they loved who worked in downtown Manhattan were safe. Students ran through the hallways, sprinting by dingy brown lockers and stunned faculty members, to reach the public telephone. Some were frantic, yelling, "My mom. My mom. My mom." Others remained solemnly silent.
The day continued. At 10:45 a.m. I was handed a note at my classroom door that read "2 WTC fell." Again, the image alluded me. By midday I was back in the main building staring at a television screen in shock. I tried to remember all those I knew who worked at World Trade. Was Tricia ok in her office at 7 World Trade? What about Mike, my college friend who just graduated from the NYC Fire Academy? Was my student's, Willy, father on a train home or trapped in the rubble?
It was truly the most terrifying day of my life.
Days passed. I heard good news of family and friends who were safe. I heard awful news of those lost. Cars remained unclaimed at the train station. Missing posters lined city sidewalks. Seeing the posters for a very popular, outgoing college classmate and another for a sorority sister brought me to my knees in Penn Station one afternoon a month later.
No matter how many years go by, it will always feels like no time has passed. The terror, the disbelief that people are so evil is something I will never shake lose. But I will also always remember how we banded together. A region shattered by tragedy became a community bonded by resilience.
And that is what I told my daughter last night as we watched the sun set over our red ripe tomatoes and plentiful green bean plants. I told her that awful men planes crashed into buildings. But, I also told her that we refused to let them crush our spirit.
I will never forget.
