Do you remember where you were? That is the question that has resonated all day today. Do you remember what you were doing? I can answer that question without hesitation, yes. Yes, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing ten years ago on this day. It was a day like any other day for a first year teacher in September. I was staying one step ahead of the game. Or so I thought.
The news came to me whispered during the passing period by the library assistant who received a call from her husband that the nuclear plant was on lockdown. The Twin Towers were bombed. That's what she said.
On the way to my classroom, my hands began to shake. I didn't sign up for this. As the class began to write in their journals, I took roll and said a prayer: Give me words. I said it over and over and braced myself for the announcement I knew was soon coming over the intercom.
It came.
Then all of the faces looked at me. There was silence. And then questions. But there was one that was asked and when I didn't answer, the student asked again: Mrs. K., what does this mean? And I answered honestly because honestly, I knew no other answer, I don't know.
I know that in that moment she simply wanted an explanation of what was happening. Of course, I didn't really know that either. But there was more, a questioning that went deeper than mere facts. She was asking what this meant for her. She wanted to know what was changing. She was a student with a bend for rebellion, but in that moment as she held my gaze so intently, I saw sober reality. And it has carried forward to this day.
I see that student periodically, a mother now. We reminsce about old times, which usually brings her to an apology for giving me such a hard time. She was a wild one and she owns it. She thanks me for not giving up on her. We laugh, but conversation always turns quiet and serious when she mentions that day. And she always mentions that day. She says she remembers my face. She says she'll never forget it.
I remember her question. And I still don't have an answer.
The news came to me whispered during the passing period by the library assistant who received a call from her husband that the nuclear plant was on lockdown. The Twin Towers were bombed. That's what she said.
On the way to my classroom, my hands began to shake. I didn't sign up for this. As the class began to write in their journals, I took roll and said a prayer: Give me words. I said it over and over and braced myself for the announcement I knew was soon coming over the intercom.
It came.
Then all of the faces looked at me. There was silence. And then questions. But there was one that was asked and when I didn't answer, the student asked again: Mrs. K., what does this mean? And I answered honestly because honestly, I knew no other answer, I don't know.
I know that in that moment she simply wanted an explanation of what was happening. Of course, I didn't really know that either. But there was more, a questioning that went deeper than mere facts. She was asking what this meant for her. She wanted to know what was changing. She was a student with a bend for rebellion, but in that moment as she held my gaze so intently, I saw sober reality. And it has carried forward to this day.
I see that student periodically, a mother now. We reminsce about old times, which usually brings her to an apology for giving me such a hard time. She was a wild one and she owns it. She thanks me for not giving up on her. We laugh, but conversation always turns quiet and serious when she mentions that day. And she always mentions that day. She says she remembers my face. She says she'll never forget it.
I remember her question. And I still don't have an answer.
