I’d been a grandmother for less than a month when the world shifted beneath our feet. A second grandchild was on the way. My two boys and daughter-in-law were all serving in the United States Air Force. I was teaching third grade and farming the same land my great-grandfather, grandparents, and aunt had worked during World War II. The morning of September 11, 2001 felt like every other day, and then, in an instant, what we thought we knew about tomorrow was gone.
At my usual morning stop at Klein’s Truck Stop, the cashier said a small plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. Wow. There was always something crazy in New York. By the time the sun finished rising over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, we’d find out just how much we didn’t know.
As school began, I remember walking into my classroom after being with adults who couldn’t stop crying. The principal, teachers, secretary, and even parents who had come in for a conference were in shock. My littles were small enough to think grownup tears were the most important thing to notice. They asked, quietly and with blunt child logic, “What happened?” I gave them the simplest truth I could. Somewhere, very far away from our little school, something terrible caused lots of people pain. We couldn’t fix it with answers I didn’t have, but we could hold one another, breathe, and keep the room safe while the rest of the world tried to understand.
My kiddos rose to the occasion in the sweetest, most honest way. While the adults tried to make sense of the news, my class drew pictures and wrote letters to NYPD fire and police, doctors, nurses, and strangers who were working, helping, and grieving. They packed those small envelopes with hope and faith that their words would matter. After all, writing is life. At the end of the day, we mailed those letters to the New York City Fire Department, a testament that even the littlest hands can reach out and try to mend something far bigger than themselves.
Years later, on September 11, 2014, at a town service during my last year teaching with the district, a young woman stopped me. She was one of those third graders. She remembered our day together and how we wrote and colored while comforting one another. She told me my words had helped her then. For a moment, we were transported back in time to that classroom table in 2001. Those are the moments that keep the memory alive, showing how small acts of kindness matter decades later.
Life did not — and will not — return to what it was on September 10, 2001. Things large and small, political and personal, changed forever that day. In some places, schools choose not to dwell on it because it is too painful for young children. How silly. I remember the brave, simple compassion of my students who wanted to do something meaningful to help on that horrible day. Remembering does not have to be only about the horror, but can also include the kindness that helped that day.
Today, take a breath and think back to where you were that day. What were you doing to make a difference? Were you small and confused, like my third graders, or grown and scrambling to understand? Twenty-four years later, think about the lives that changed in an instant. Let that memory lead you to a small act of kindness, either by donating, volunteering an hour, or calling someone who would appreciate being remembered.
Tunnel to Towers has become my go-to. As with any charity, it’s wise to learn about its leadership and finances. For inspiration from ordinary people stepping up when called upon, watch Come From Away, the tale of Gander and the small town that opened its heart to strangers.
We can never forget. Not for one blink of an eye. Not for one quiet morning when the sun rises as it always has. Remembering is not merely an obligation but a way to teach the next generation how to be human in the face of heartbreak: to mourn, to help, and to keep showing up for each other. Everyday.
Do something kind today.