Reflections on a Tragedy

September 11, 2001. I remember it as a crisp, slightly overcast day. Of course, my memory may be playing tricks on me. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that it was raining, or that it was sunny and 105F, or that there was a blizzard and twelve inches of snow. Some of the details are fuzzy.

But other things I remember as clearly as if they happened yesterday. I was teaching class at Emerson Alternative High School, in my very large classroom on the second floor. In my English class, a group of misfits and mischief makers of all ages and abilities from all over the city were working on their individualized assignments while I was discussing the history of computers with a group of more-or-less enthusiastic academic team members. A perfectly normal start to a perfectly normal day.

Until one of my students arrived late. I started to ask her for her admit slip, but when I looked at her face, I could see something was seriously wrong.

She looked at me and the first words out of her mouth were: "Why did they drive that plane into that building?"

I had trouble processing what she asked. Plane? Building? What?  Nothing she said made any sense. I found my voice and asked, "What building?"

"The building. The big building!" she said, gesticulating wildly. She was obviously shaken, and she wasn't the sort of girl who was easily ruffled. "It's on the TV," she added, pointing to the wall-mounted television in the classroom.

So we turned it on and watched. Watched as the live feed showed the aftermath of the first plane hitting the first tower. Watched as the second tower was hit. Watched as the reports came in from the Pentagon and from a field in Pennsylvania. Watched as a man jumped to his death. Watched as the buildings tumbled to the ground, again and again, on what seemed to be a continuous instant replay loop. Watched in stunned silence. Watched in horror.

We watched with tears in our eyes and pain in our hearts.

Because we knew what this meant. Better than most people in the country, the people of Oklahoma City knew what it meant to be attacked by a terrorist. We had lived through the pain and the chaos and the months and years of rebuilding our lives. We knew what the people of New York were facing. And we knew that our tragedy was miniscule compared to theirs.

It's September 11th again and I find myself trying once more--and failing miserably--to ignore and forget and hide away from the obvious. Try as I might to ostrich, the elephant sneaked into the room, and now I have to deal with all its leavings.

On this day, as on all days, I wish for peace.