9-11-01
It was my sophomore year in college and I had just finished taking a test. I’d gotten my breakfast and walked into the commons to find a bunch of people sitting around the big screen. I thought how weird it was for a bunch of people to be watching something at 9:30 in the morning, much less be awake. Without concern I walked up to my empty dorm and turned on my 12″ to find the horror that we all remember so vividly. I saw the towers smoking and changed channels because I thought it might be a movie. When the reality of what was happening sunk in, a breed of panic I had never felt crept into my toes and inched its way through my body. I saw the Pentagon and that’s when my panic went verbal, as my uncle worked in the Pentagon at the time. I immediately tried to call my parents, but I couldn’t get through. I tried to call my sister, but nothing. Over and over again I called, just to be met with voicemail or a busy signal. I ran out of the dorm to my next class where I breathlessly tried to explain to my professor what was going on. She let me go to try and continue to contact my parents to figure out of my uncle was safe.
It’s funny the specific things your brain holds onto in times like these. When my mom finally answered the phone I could hear the worry in her voice and my heart sank. There was this little pig-tailed girl part of me that wanted to hear hope in her voice that everything would be okay. I began to cry and asked her what was going on, but she said she didn’t know. It was one of those moments where I did a small bit of growing up; when I realized mom and dad could not always make everything okay. My skin got a little thicker in that moment. Standing alone in my dorm room I sat down, then stood, then paced. What do you do in times like that? Pray? Yes, I prayed. I prayed with every breath, but what do you do? I’ll tell you what I did….I colored. I was an education major and happened to have crayons and a coloring book for some project we were doing, so I picked them up, sat on my bed, and colored. All I had wanted to do was hug my parents, and that coloring, for whatever reason, gave me the comfort I needed. To this day it weirds me out thinking about it.
Thankfully, my uncle was safe that day, but the gravity of all of those that weren’t was almost too much to handle. Remembering that day is all too easy. I don’t need tons of Facebook posts to trigger those memories. I don’t need the news replaying the broadcasts and the terrifying images to trigger those memories. They are forever chiseled in my mind – the dread, the panic, the heartache, the images – it’s all there, all fresh.
Today I had to address the question every elementary school teacher asks him/herself every year at this time: Do I talk about 9-11 with my students? It’s difficult when you are dealing with children that were not even a thought in their parents’ minds yet to explain and discuss the events of that day. Most small children do not understand tragedy. What a beautiful thing, huh? I look at my son and think, wow. What a beautiful world he lives in right now…free of death, loss, tragedy, pain… For the past two years I have made the decision not to discuss the events of 9-11 with my students. We have a moment of silence as a school, but I leave it at that and go on with business. Last year on September 12th one of my students came into class and said, “Mrs. Eishen, my mom couldn’t believe we didn’t talk about 9-11 in class yesterday. She was like, ‘How can you NOT talk about it?'” Well, my answer to that is that I feel that is a conversation that needs to happen at the dinner table, not at morning meeting. It’s something that children need to hear in the comfort of their parents’ loving arms where they feel they can ask tough questions if need be and discuss things like God, prayer, and other religious aspects if they so choose. It may not seem like the right thing to do, but it’s what I feel most comfortable with.
In 2003 I had a roommate from Taiwan. We were on the couch watching the coverage of the 2nd anniversary of 9-11 and she looked at me very non-chalantly and said, “I don’t get it. Why is everyone crying so much?” I looked at her incredulously, unable to comprehend what she was asking me. She then went on to say how things like this happen in her country often and people just deal with it. I had to explain to her the American mindset, which I had always taken for granted. We may be a divided country on certain issues, but we are a country of one heart. We are a compassionate people. We are willing to throw ourselves on the front lines for each other. We are a proud nation. A giving nation. A powerful nation. A blessed nation.
And I am proud to call myself American.
Prayers, love, and peace.
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