Everyone has a story about where they were when they heard the news. My son had just left his duty station in New Jersey as an Air Man and young husband heading for California. My second son was in England working as a linguist. My parents were coming home from a very long trip. I found myself, like any other day, stopping by a convenience store to get my daily dose of Diet Coke before heading to my classroom.
In 2001, I was a 3rd grade teacher at a little community school. With 20 students to keep me hopping, I liked to be in my classroom each day by 5:45 AM. There were papers to correct, lessons to plan, and parent meetings to hold. Being a morning person, it made sense that my day would start early and end when the kiddos went home and I could become a farmer for the evening. A win/win all the way around.
That morning, the owner of the truck stop had the news blaring on the television. At that point, it wasn’t certain what type of plan had crashed. Dark smoke was rising out of the building and confusion was everywhere. Racing to get to school while listening to the news, the second plane crashed. It wasn’t an accident. By the time I entered my classroom, it was obvious. Something horrible had just happened, and with the potential for more than 20,000 deaths. No one knew how may souls were trapped in the flaming buildings or how many would be able to leave.
That beautiful day in the San Joaquin Valley of California, school buses arrived with children a little more somber than usual. Kids huddled together on the playground. Some parents kept their babies home. I would have. When the school bell rang, my little Room 20 family and I were together. We quietly recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I asked them to join me on the story carpet, a place of community and comfort for us. I sat down on the carpet and we all talked about what news was unfolding. Something bad happened in a far off city called New York. Our map came down to show the distance away from the safety of our school.
Third graders are some of the finest people alive. They are bright, intuitive, and thoughtful. They are made of heart, fire, and skinned knees. They love learning and want be good. They were the people I wanted to be with that day, and I was the person that they were glad to call teacher. And so, we brainstormed. What could we do to best use our time? What would keep us focused on good thoughts and deeds. We came up with a plan.
There were doctors doing their best. Firefighters saving others. Shop owners offered what they could. Policemen and women would work extra long shifts. We would write letters and draw pictures and send our love. Because right then, we had love and prayers that needed to be put to good use.
I was never more proud of class than that one on that day. They were brave and strong, even when they saw the teachers crying in the office. They were good and followed every rule. They drew their best pictures. They wrote in their finest printing. And, they remembered to give me lots and lots of hugs, which was a normal and wonderful part of school back then. At the end of the day we had a manila envelope full of love to send on its way.
Addressed–To the Doctors, Nurses, Police, Firefighters and Helpers on 9-11-01. New York, New York, it would arrive with thousands of others. On their down time, I saw tv coverage of the first responders sitting in a nearby church to read random notes of love from American children just like the ones in my classroom. Our letters had made it. They went on the Wings of Love from my kiddos.
As the years went by, there were less school hour remembrances of that day. Less talk about the horrors that happened. Less talk of the evil deed planned and executed by men from real countries we were not allowed to mention. Finally, there came a day when 9-11 was a normal school day with no mention at all. That was the day I knew I didn’t fit in the profession any more.
September 11, 2001, (my last as a teacher in California), I attended a special memorial in Clovis, California. Sitting deep in thought, the tears flowed as they had every 9-11 since the first. Attendees that day numbered 1,000, but it was two that came to find me that mattered. A beautiful young woman and her handsome boyfriend came up to me as I was bowed in prayer.
“Mrs. Hurt?”
Looking up, I recognized the young woman as a past student, now in her late teens. I needed to focus on the smile, as that’s what I’d recognize first.
“You need to give me a hint. I have a feeling I knew you many years ago.”
She smiled and said, “Mrs. Hurt, it’s Annie. You were with me on 9-11. I wanted to Thank You. That day has meant so much to me through the years.”
Of Course! Annie with the beautiful eyes. Annie with the impish grin. The smart and wise Annie of Room 20, grown up and yet the same girl from so long ago.
Just like that, it was 9-11-2001 all over again, but this time, the roles were reversed. It was she who comforted me. How blessed I was to have been with my 3rd graders that day. Did I mention they are the best people on this earth? Do something special tomorrow. Just don’t forget. We can never forget.