Thirteen years ago I was a teacher in a classroom of sixth graders in Culpeper, Virginia, an hour from Washington, D.C. When the first plane flew into the towers, I was notified by the principal, in subdued tones at the classroom doorway, of the unfolding tragedy, our voices lost in the din of migrating desks and exploding backpacks. I was instructed not to inform students of that morning's events. I knew that at least one child had a father working at the Pentagon.
Muzzled, I stuck to the game plan, enlightening my students with the fine points of linking verbs and avoiding the smoking elephant in the middle of the room. During my planning period, I turned on the TV and watched the planes flying into the towers over and over again. There were reports of an attack on the Pentagon. After recess my students burst back into the room, still chattering of running-backs and rap-stars.
Refuge was not to be mine for the entire day. With no opportunity to share my feelings with child or adult, I was left to rerun those shocking media images in my head. Who would release the next demon, unleash the next firestorm? There were short, stolen conversations, surreptitiously shared with other teachers, in the cafeteria corners while students went about their usual chewing and talking at the same time, unaware of the cares that would burden us all in future years. As a teacher, I felt irresponsible, derelict in my duty to prepare them for the aftershock of the day's events.
The afternoon passed in a twilight zone. Many students were withdrawn from school by their parents, for mythical appointments and family emergencies. The rest of us remained, acting out our parts, mouthing the words, imitating the gestures. My boy with the father in the Pentagon left early with his mother to hear a story I wouldn't know until the next day. Thankfully, his father had been playing golf at East Potomac Park when the plane crashed into his offices.
I stood watching hundreds of young people streaming onto their busses, Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Hindus. I reflected on the places where they were going. Some of them had loving parents who would meet them and help them understand why there are people on the planet who hate us for what we have and who we are. Many children, however, would come home to empty houses where they would turn on a television bombarding them with the images of Armageddon. Left alone to watch as terrified people ran in masses, trying to escape Manhattan, what forms might their fears take? Where might their imaginations take them?
I did have a refuge. I could pour a glass of wine and sit on my deck, looking out across the Rapidan River into the foothills of the Blue Ridge and up into those mountains, so starkly blue against a clear September sky. Even so, the little boy inside of me still needed to be held and reassured that everything was going to be all right. I would not be able to comfort my students the following day. Our world had changed and the ripples have become raging waves of hatred that burn across our lands today. In Africa, in Syria, in Gaza, in Iraq, in Afghanistan, the children remain the innocent victims.