It was a positively perfect day in New York City. A crystal clear sky would, in a sad and scary moment, turn dark and ugly. It was the third day of my career as a kindergarten teacher in a public school below 14th Street. My daughter and son, who were in third grade and kindergarten respectively, attended a different school nearby. My son was sick that day, and so my husband was on his way with him to the doctor's. They had just dropped our daughter off.
My class was loud that morning, and it would continue to be for the next nine years; one of many things in this world I simply cannot change. I had a student teacher and a student helper from NYU. Both were lovely. Both were so genuine and new. My principal was iron tough, but she saw the best in me when I let out the best of me. My classroom was across the hall from our busy main office, the one that bustled with vocal, loving parents, administration and teachers. My classroom was on the ground floor where street noise could always be heard, but not on this day.
I remember that there were announcements over the intercom. There were always announcements over the intercom. I paid little attention to them. I was far too determined to get my 24 five-year-olds to sit in a circle, and multitasking the acts of commanding and listening was not my strongest skill. So our school secretary entered through my closed classroom door. I always kept the door closed. It was too noisy for a main floor hallway.
She asked, "Do you want to call your husband?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Aren't you listening to the announcements?"
"No. Why?"
And that is when I learned the news. I didn't believe it. In fact, I remember saying aloud, "Are you sure? That can't be true." It was only steps from the front door of our school to the avenue that stretched her arms all the way to the burning buildings. I had a very clear view. I would witness the world change as I once knew it. I didn't want to believe it.
Within a short time, parents picked up their children, and K-110 became the holding room for all the children who innocently waited. I didn't know the parents well enough on that third day of school to even know which adults paired with which children. I had only faith. We all had to dig deep into our faith that day and in the days to follow.
Within a short time there was a line wrapped around our block for blood donations at the hospital. We thought blood would be needed.
Within a short time cell phone service would stop. I called my husband but was unable to reach him. Later when we found each other on the street, he told me that he saw the plane hit the World Trade Center. So did our son. He told me that he cried on a corner. We all cried.
Within a short time, there would be no cars on the streets. Just quiet pedestrians. And amidst the shock and stillness of our city, American flags would billow from windows.
Within a short time the New York skyline would be changed forever. The towers would crumble. And I would not remember what they once looked like. Why hadn't I taken notice? I had just been there the week before for a new teacher workshop. Why hadn't I noticed?
September 11th never gets easier to understand or endure. It still leaves me chilled. After watching the memorial service today on television, I felt the need to go downtown and just be. There were protests and crowds and even a blindfolded man wearing a t-shirt that read 9-11 Was an Inside Job.
Tonight I will say a prayer for all of us: for the families of the victims and for all whose lives were taken from them. I will marvel at the Ground Zero beams of light and at the way they will kiss the heavens from dusk till dawn. I will notice.
I will remember.
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