There are teachable moments, and there are teachable moments. The life-altering, perspective-shifting events that are so important to the way our children perceive the world don’t happen all that often, but when they do, we parents are required to step up to the plate and do our best work.
Ten years ago when the World Trade Center was attacked, I, like everyone else, I was completely undone—and was compelled to not only impart life lessons to my own children, but to a classroom of fourth graders who were in my charge as my CCD students.
In my personal story of that morning, soon after my three kids were sent off to school, my dear friend Fran called me and asked if I had the TV on; I did not, so she said “Turn on the news—right now!”
Watching the footage of a plane hitting the first tower, I was utterly shocked, thinking it was a horrible, bizarre accident. I hung up with my friend to quickly call my mother, who often takes day trips to Manhattan, just to tell her “something” was going on- we didn’t know what yet- and to advise her not to venture in that day. We were still on the phone together when I saw the second plane heading for the other tower. I was confused and suddenly consumed with cold dread. My dad got on the phone and was the one to get it through to me that this was this was no accident. He believed, even at that point, that it was an actual attack on the United States, an act of war.
The kids in school presented a problem all of us parents faced: We debated whether to leave them there, unaware of anything wrong, until we knew if it was necessary to go and pick them up for their safety, or to let them remain in their regular schedules. After discussing it with my husband (who thankfully worked on Long Island) we decided to let our fifteen-year-old, our eleven-year-old, and our nine-year-old stay put for the time being. Other parents rushed to the schools and took their kids home; I was just grateful there was a safe place to leave them in “normal” life for as long as possible. Truly, I wasn’t ready to assume my mom persona and be present for them; I had to get a grip on myself and try and understand what was going on first. As I was already dressed for work I tried to cling to my own routine to remain calm. I went over to the school district where I was the public relations specialist, a fifteen minute drive from my home.
Because I live on a part of Long Island that has a view of the city right across the water, I could actually see the towers burning, the black smoke belching and billowing to the sky, that sky that was such a perfect azure a couple of hours earlier. At one point, I stopped my car next to a line of others on a rise in the road, and joined the other drivers who had also gotten out of their vehicles to watch, all of us silent and scared and unsure of what this all meant. I flipped between news stations on the car radio, trying to get as much information as I could.
As soon as I got to work, I saw the TV was turned to CNN in the superintendent’s office and the Pentagon was attacked as I stared. We’re under siege, I thought. I realized no work would get done that day, at least not by me, so I turned around and headed for home.
I called Fran back, and we decided what we really needed above all else was to be together, so I went to her house. We walked numbly back and forth from her skyline-facing kitchen window to watch the destruction right before our eyes, to the TV, where we looked at the increasingly freaked-out reporters trying to make sense of it all. Fran’s husband was working in the city that day, as was my brother, my cousins, along with countless friends and acquaintances. There was no cell service, no regular phone service, no telegram or pony express or smoke signal service. We couldn’t know where any of them were, and though none of our nearest-and-dearest were supposed to be in lower Manhattan that day, we still didn’t know if they were okay, and even more terrifying, if, and where, another attack would happen.
