As I sat in my first grade classroom this morning leading the morning greeting, I looked around at the 26 six-year old faces around my room. We carried on our morning meeting as usual, and I asked one of my students to write the date on the easel. They stepped up on their tip toes and wrote "9-11-2014" in bright blue marker. Seeing that date scrawled across the paper made me hold my breath. A tragic, if not the most tragic, day in our nation's history. But I then realized that all my students were born years after that nightmare. They wrote that date without a hitch, without a second thought. They didn't have to experience the pain and heartbreak. And I hope they never do.
I was eleven years old when 9/11 happened. I was sitting in my sixth grade English class when an announcement over the loud speaker said there had been an accident at the World Trade Center in New York City, and if anyone had family there then they should report to the office immediately. At the time, I didn't even know what the World Trade Center was. Teachers whispered in the hallways. Staff followed students into the bathrooms. But coming home to my father, seated in front of the TV with tears streaming down his face, was the lasting memory I'll have in my mind forever. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry.
I feel in some ways that my childhood ended that day. I could no longer listen to the radio before going to bed because of the constant 9/11 coverage. Our school day was flooded with questions from teachers asking if we were ok. And, as difficult as it is to talk about, it's around the time my anxiety disorder originated. I could no longer fly in airplanes due to a paralyzing fear. As time passed, it became difficult to travel in trains and buses as well. Several years later, I was in therapy for a year. 13 years later, while I've made some progress, I still cannot get on a plane.
This day brings out a multitude of emotions for me. Every year on 9/11, I sob in the shower until I can get it all out. I am filled with sadness, heartbreak, and anger. Angry that, in some small way, those individuals who carried out those horrific actions that day succeeded in instilling fear. They instilled fear in me, a lasting, torturous, 13-year fear that I cannot shake to this day. And it infuriates me. I woke up this morning feeling these emotions, but my heart was swiftly changed after my school day began.
I am hopeful. Hopeful that, while the bad gets so much attention, the good will persevere. Today, I witnessed one of my students share her black colored pencil with her neighbor to finish a project. I witnessed one of my students give up her spot on the rug because another student forgot his glasses. I witnessed one of my students comfort another one of my students because she missed her mother on a business trip. And it encouraged me to stop and think if someone needed me to do something for them today that they couldn't do themselves. So I will go to bed tonight not only praying for those lost lives and their loved ones, but also that the same kindness of my children can be absorbed into the world. Sometimes, I feel like they are teaching me more than I could ever teach them.
xo Jessica
