It's been 16 years since the attacks of September 11, 2001, and with each anniversary that passes, I fear that young people today will continue to become further removed from that fateful day. Today's college students are likely too young to remember, and many high schoolers were not even born by 2001. To them, it's not a part of their world, and it's becoming just another footnote in history, an entry on a timeline of things older generations believed were important.
But I remember.
I was just 22 years old, having ventured alone into the unknown and far from my Indiana home, and I was in charge of my first class of fifth graders in south Florida. We had only been in session a month, and I was still getting my legs under me--which takes a while, as any new teacher will tell you. We were doing a math lesson on that morning when our school counselor popped her head into my classroom to drop off some paperwork on one of my students. As she was leaving, she said, "I think something weird has happened in Washington D.C. A big fire maybe?" I didn't think much of it, and we continued our lesson.
My kids had the first lunch slot in the school, 10:50 am, so after our math, I took the kids down to the cafeteria. When I returned, I flipped on our classroom television to check the news. And the towers were gone. I usually made a quick peanut butter sandwich during my break, but not that day. I just sat and watched. Footage looped endlessly, each plane piercing the buildings, fireballs spewing forth. Deaths replayed again and again. The crumbling of earth and concrete and glass and all of the most terrible things of your imagination in a cloud that enveloped the city, and a nation.
I quickly started wondering what I should do with my class the rest of the day. Should I let them watch the tv coverage? Should we discuss what's happening? Is this a history lesson playing itself in real time? I decided against it. If I had high schoolers, maybe. But not my fifth graders.
So we worked. The kids went through the rest of the day oblivious, and I held on to the worst secret I've ever had. We laughed and read and talked and studied, just like we had every day previous. We stuck to the routine. On a day that was the complete opposite of routine.
Maybe that's the lesson. When the world seems to be crumbling around you, stay focused on the task at hand. At least that's what I decided we would do that day.
They would learn of the events later that afternoon, like everyone would, when they went home and turned on their own televisions and sat with their families and asked each other questions. Will we have school tomorrow? What if there's another attack?
Why would anyone kill innocent civilians on purpose?
No one knew. No one knew how our lives would change from that day forward. And no one knew that all these years later, we would still be dealing with its aftermath. And it was the not knowing that brought us together.
So that's what I did on a beautiful Tuesday morning 16 years ago.
I hope young people don't wander through this life blind and deaf to how our culture has changed. I hope they realize that our connections to one another are defined by moments, sometimes tragic ones. And that those moments shape our collective human experience for many years to come. I hope tragedies won't be the only events that bring people together. And I hope as kids get older and school calendars fly by like confetti in the wind that even if they don't remember, they don't forget.
But I remember.
I was just 22 years old, having ventured alone into the unknown and far from my Indiana home, and I was in charge of my first class of fifth graders in south Florida. We had only been in session a month, and I was still getting my legs under me--which takes a while, as any new teacher will tell you. We were doing a math lesson on that morning when our school counselor popped her head into my classroom to drop off some paperwork on one of my students. As she was leaving, she said, "I think something weird has happened in Washington D.C. A big fire maybe?" I didn't think much of it, and we continued our lesson.
My kids had the first lunch slot in the school, 10:50 am, so after our math, I took the kids down to the cafeteria. When I returned, I flipped on our classroom television to check the news. And the towers were gone. I usually made a quick peanut butter sandwich during my break, but not that day. I just sat and watched. Footage looped endlessly, each plane piercing the buildings, fireballs spewing forth. Deaths replayed again and again. The crumbling of earth and concrete and glass and all of the most terrible things of your imagination in a cloud that enveloped the city, and a nation.
I quickly started wondering what I should do with my class the rest of the day. Should I let them watch the tv coverage? Should we discuss what's happening? Is this a history lesson playing itself in real time? I decided against it. If I had high schoolers, maybe. But not my fifth graders.
So we worked. The kids went through the rest of the day oblivious, and I held on to the worst secret I've ever had. We laughed and read and talked and studied, just like we had every day previous. We stuck to the routine. On a day that was the complete opposite of routine.
Maybe that's the lesson. When the world seems to be crumbling around you, stay focused on the task at hand. At least that's what I decided we would do that day.
They would learn of the events later that afternoon, like everyone would, when they went home and turned on their own televisions and sat with their families and asked each other questions. Will we have school tomorrow? What if there's another attack?
Why would anyone kill innocent civilians on purpose?
No one knew. No one knew how our lives would change from that day forward. And no one knew that all these years later, we would still be dealing with its aftermath. And it was the not knowing that brought us together.
So that's what I did on a beautiful Tuesday morning 16 years ago.
I hope young people don't wander through this life blind and deaf to how our culture has changed. I hope they realize that our connections to one another are defined by moments, sometimes tragic ones. And that those moments shape our collective human experience for many years to come. I hope tragedies won't be the only events that bring people together. And I hope as kids get older and school calendars fly by like confetti in the wind that even if they don't remember, they don't forget.