My siblings are “baby boomers.” They remember the assassination of JFK, RFK, MLK, and Malcom X. They remember the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s because they lived through it. 9-11 was one of my first big historical moments that I lived through that I will never forget. It also had it’s biggest impact on my life because it was so personal.
I vaguely remember the Kent State Massacre-- I remember seeing clips on the Today Show before catching my school bus in the morning. I remember the Challenger Explosion, I was a freshman in college, my professor broke down in tears to tell us what had happened while we had our heads buried in our studies, unaware of the rest of the world. I remember The Columbine Massacre and the subsequent “copy-cat” slaughters. That event wounded me so badly that I was compelled to write a story that later was published in a “zine.” 9-11 was different though, this was personal. It hit me where I lived and where I worked.
I remember being happy that day. My kids were awesome, so far. I had fewer students and it was a sunny day--- only thing is, I really did need shades and, typical of me, I lost them, somewhere.So I drove into work, truly looking forward to a great day in class with students I met less than a week earlier. There I was driving my 95 Ford Contour down Route One, squinting, smiling, looking forward to another great day with great kids and an awesome staff, like most everyone else that day, unaware of the horror awaiting me in just a few hours.
But, in the meantime, I bumbled into the building, greeting kids and peers with my trademark sing-song “Hey There” to folks whose caffeine had not yet kicked in and students who begrudgingly responded with “hey,” still mourning the end of summer.
I definitely have a teacher persona, a schtick. It is not unusual to catch me being a goof in class: singing, dancing, mimicking, miming, cajoling and amusing. This was who I always was during the first month of school and most days afterwards. It’s not an act. I like what I do and who I do it with. Why wouldn’t I be in a good mood and eager to share it?
I had third period planning that year. Coincidentally, I have it this year as well. Back then, folks were impressed with my technological acumen and my teammate, Catherine e stopped by as soon as my students cleared my room. She was mildly concerned, a student had just returned from the orthodontist with a crazy story about a plane hitting the World Trade Center in Manhattan. She told me that the boy appeared to be a jokester, although she had only known him fewer than five days; she wanted to verify. That was easy enough to do. I sat down at my desk and went to the internet to open a newsfeed website. The internet was down. That was not unusual, the internet failed often back in those days. We both dismissed the tale, satisfied it was just a vie for attention and went on with the busy time of opening school.
School opening week is hectic: papers to retrieve, catalogue, copies to make, forms to fill out, phone calls to return, syllabi to revise. Hectic. So I was buzzing along the main hallway to the faculty room to check off my mental “to do” list when I noticed something odd. Our TV studio had a window for half of its exterior wall and passersby could easily see what was happening in there. Sometimes kids were filming the morning news. Other times kids were sitting with their teacher to edit their work. That day, I saw an odd sight. The room was jammed with teachers and they all stood transfixed by the cable tv.
It looked like they were watching Independence Day because the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were on fire. True to form, I blurted without thinking: “Must be nice to have time to watch Independence Day on cable during your prep period. Don’t you guys have work to do?”
One of my friends looked me dead in the eye and explained to me somberly, in exactly the same tone the commandant used when he told me my grandfather died, “It’s not a movie, Joel. It’s the news.”
“No way!” I didn’t say it, but it screamed in my head, and that’s when I noticed the faces of my colleagues. They were not only silently transfixed. Some people’s eyes were watered, other faces were tear-stained, that universal pantomime for horror instinctively posed itself upon others: a balled fist in front of the mouth with a contorted grimace about to bite the thumb. Hands were in front of other’s faces who tried to suppress their gasps. I became part of the menagerie of a horrified televised viewing audience. I don’t know what I looked like. I know I just stared and time seemed to stand still. The Today Show host’s commentary stopped sounding like English to me. I only sensed the billowing smoke from the towers smouldering on the screen.
I had seen more than my share of horror movies, but I think that was the first time I had actually been horrified by what I was watching, and then it happened. The first tower collapsed in front of us. The screams were not on the screen but in the room. Screams of horror and disbelief as we realized hundreds, perhaps thousands of office workers died right then. The surreality of it struck me, it looked like a high rise demolition video. Papers, dust, smoke exploded from the sinking tower as it collapsed upon itself. There were people inside, many people. Many people died.
As people found their words to describe their horror, disbelief, conjecture… to speak again and break the awkward silence that the scene enforced upon us. That was when the second tower fell. I couldn’t take it. This was sensory overload. I had work to do. That was my response. I could not process what I saw so I went into robot mode, made a polite exit, and headed further down the hall to the faculty room to make my copies.
I walked past the studio and tried to ignore that there were colleagues of mine in there crying, tearing, swearing, befuddled and bewildered-- trying to make sense of the senseless violent scene unfolding. I turned into the 8th grade concourse, walked past the lockers and was halfway through the common area when I heard my assistant principal call my name. She was also in robot mode but I saw her pain in her eyes as she told me:
I remember being happy that day. My kids were awesome, so far. I had fewer students and it was a sunny day--- only thing is, I really did need shades and, typical of me, I lost them, somewhere.So I drove into work, truly looking forward to a great day in class with students I met less than a week earlier. There I was driving my 95 Ford Contour down Route One, squinting, smiling, looking forward to another great day with great kids and an awesome staff, like most everyone else that day, unaware of the horror awaiting me in just a few hours.
But, in the meantime, I bumbled into the building, greeting kids and peers with my trademark sing-song “Hey There” to folks whose caffeine had not yet kicked in and students who begrudgingly responded with “hey,” still mourning the end of summer.
I definitely have a teacher persona, a schtick. It is not unusual to catch me being a goof in class: singing, dancing, mimicking, miming, cajoling and amusing. This was who I always was during the first month of school and most days afterwards. It’s not an act. I like what I do and who I do it with. Why wouldn’t I be in a good mood and eager to share it?
I had third period planning that year. Coincidentally, I have it this year as well. Back then, folks were impressed with my technological acumen and my teammate, Catherine e stopped by as soon as my students cleared my room. She was mildly concerned, a student had just returned from the orthodontist with a crazy story about a plane hitting the World Trade Center in Manhattan. She told me that the boy appeared to be a jokester, although she had only known him fewer than five days; she wanted to verify. That was easy enough to do. I sat down at my desk and went to the internet to open a newsfeed website. The internet was down. That was not unusual, the internet failed often back in those days. We both dismissed the tale, satisfied it was just a vie for attention and went on with the busy time of opening school.
School opening week is hectic: papers to retrieve, catalogue, copies to make, forms to fill out, phone calls to return, syllabi to revise. Hectic. So I was buzzing along the main hallway to the faculty room to check off my mental “to do” list when I noticed something odd. Our TV studio had a window for half of its exterior wall and passersby could easily see what was happening in there. Sometimes kids were filming the morning news. Other times kids were sitting with their teacher to edit their work. That day, I saw an odd sight. The room was jammed with teachers and they all stood transfixed by the cable tv.
It looked like they were watching Independence Day because the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were on fire. True to form, I blurted without thinking: “Must be nice to have time to watch Independence Day on cable during your prep period. Don’t you guys have work to do?”
One of my friends looked me dead in the eye and explained to me somberly, in exactly the same tone the commandant used when he told me my grandfather died, “It’s not a movie, Joel. It’s the news.”
“No way!” I didn’t say it, but it screamed in my head, and that’s when I noticed the faces of my colleagues. They were not only silently transfixed. Some people’s eyes were watered, other faces were tear-stained, that universal pantomime for horror instinctively posed itself upon others: a balled fist in front of the mouth with a contorted grimace about to bite the thumb. Hands were in front of other’s faces who tried to suppress their gasps. I became part of the menagerie of a horrified televised viewing audience. I don’t know what I looked like. I know I just stared and time seemed to stand still. The Today Show host’s commentary stopped sounding like English to me. I only sensed the billowing smoke from the towers smouldering on the screen.
I had seen more than my share of horror movies, but I think that was the first time I had actually been horrified by what I was watching, and then it happened. The first tower collapsed in front of us. The screams were not on the screen but in the room. Screams of horror and disbelief as we realized hundreds, perhaps thousands of office workers died right then. The surreality of it struck me, it looked like a high rise demolition video. Papers, dust, smoke exploded from the sinking tower as it collapsed upon itself. There were people inside, many people. Many people died.
As people found their words to describe their horror, disbelief, conjecture… to speak again and break the awkward silence that the scene enforced upon us. That was when the second tower fell. I couldn’t take it. This was sensory overload. I had work to do. That was my response. I could not process what I saw so I went into robot mode, made a polite exit, and headed further down the hall to the faculty room to make my copies.
I walked past the studio and tried to ignore that there were colleagues of mine in there crying, tearing, swearing, befuddled and bewildered-- trying to make sense of the senseless violent scene unfolding. I turned into the 8th grade concourse, walked past the lockers and was halfway through the common area when I heard my assistant principal call my name. She was also in robot mode but I saw her pain in her eyes as she told me:
“The superintendent called me and told me to tell the staff that they are not to mention the events on the news to the students. Many of our students may just have been orphaned. Some parents are coming to get their children, but those who remain do not need to be upset by news they can do nothing about. Cell towers are overloaded and the internet has failed from too many people trying to access it. You understand?” She needed me to understand. Her insistence was oppressively earnest.
“Yes.” I answered feeling like someone shoved salt down my gullet or sawdust. The words came out like a puff of dust. She spun on a dime and was off to the next teacher. Robot mode, just like me. No judgement.
But robot mode would not work for “Mr. Logan.” The students were already accustomed to my high energy dancing, singing, cajoling, oppressively upbeat demeanor. How could I be that guy knowing that some would go home to be confronted with tragedy?
“When you’ve run out of your own answers, lean on Jesus.” I don’t know whether someone told me that, I read it on a t-shirt, or spotted it on a bumper sticker, but with 15 minutes left of my prep period, I sat at my desk, opened a letter and wrote to my best friends on this planet: Mom and Dad. I asked for them to pray for me because I had to put on a brave and happy face to shield my students from the dread I was already experiencing. They got my message and replied back to me. I made it through--- fueled by the vapors of ardent prayers from my family.
In the aftermath of the day, I learned the following. My sister had a 9am meeting with top brass at the Pentagon at 9:00am but she was stuck in traffic on the beltway and was late. If she had been on time, she would have been in the section destroyed by the plane that struck the structure. My eldest brother and his wife had been in the Congo for a hospital dedication. When the US closed its borders and cancelled international flights, they were stuck there for an addition three weeks. One of my English teaching colleagues lost her son on 9-11. He was on the 88th floor of the first tower hit. He was 23 years old and had just graduated from college that spring. Two students from my district lost their grandfather, the fire chief who famously went into the towers with his men and was trapped there when the towers collapsed.
For me, and many of my generation, 9-11 is not just a date in history memorialized with tattoos, bumper stickers, t-shirts and annual memes on Facebook. It is the day I will never forget nor ever stop feeling. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
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