I remember clearly talking to Dustin, an eighth grader 4 inches taller than me, and only 8 years younger. He was spreading apathy and attitude in a wake behind him, and being the ever wise 22 year old teacher I had decided I should take him aside. I knew just enough to think I knew it all. He and I were just about to have a breakthrough when the principal chicken-stepped into my room. She was a wild haired, well-meaning and equally well-educated, woman. She dismissed Dustin, much to my annoyance and then whispered in my ear, at the same time handing me a piece of white typed paper. Even as I had it in writing as well as in my ear, I was still in complete disbelief. "A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center."
What a shame, I thought! Those poor people! I wonder if anyone has been hurt? My naive little brain could not conceive of the possibility that this was an action plotted out purposefully.
As the second plane crashed a sense of panic rose in me, and throughout our school. What is going on? Where will they hit next? What is the point of this? Why would We, the mighty America, be a target?
Parents began to show up, and call, clogging our hallways and our phone lines. As with everyone in America I called everyone I cared about, knew and was related to.
I stared in stunned silence at a TV placed on the table in the teacher's workroom searching for an answer which never streamed across the bottom in white letters.
Later that day I heard that my friend April had given birth to a beautiful baby girl, and I thanked God that he brought a miracle into this world. A blessing which helped our family and friends to redefine the horrific day as the day a precious perfect little girl was born.
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