I was an elementary teacher. I had a prep time first thing in the morning. While my students were gone (in the gym? In music? I don’t remember), my good friend the reading specialist ran into my room to tell me we’d been attacked.
We were not allowed to discuss the attack or even tell our students until the end of the day. Two of my sixth graders went home for lunch, so they knew and we talked, quietly, when they came back.
Teachers were called to the lounge for an emergency meeting during the first recess of the day. We’d pulled a television on a cart (yeah, the old days!) into the lounge so we could watch news updates. There weren’t many updates.
My own children, in high school and elementary school at the time, came home on their buses and ran in the house yelling exactly the same thing: “Mom! Did you hear what happened?!”
I thought for a moment that I should fill my minivan with gas before the stations ran out or the prices skyrocketed. Much of the city had the same idea, and the lines were incredibly long. I decided I’d rather spend this time with my children. I had half of a tank, and that would have to be enough.
Chuck worked for a television station. We had no idea when he’d get home. Neither did he.
Today, 23 years later, I’m still learning more about the day. The potential threats, the people who were with the president at the time, the situation on Air Force One. I’m sure there’s more to learn.
We can’t ever forget the day the Towers fell. The day the Pentagon was hit. The day Flight 93 was driven into the ground by courageous passengers.
