We stood in front of her office window where we could see the Statue of Liberty. We saw a speedboat, called The Beast, blasting a load of tourists through the harbor. We laughed at the boat’s rollicking antics, decorating the harbor with a foamy white wake. Kate declared she would take the boys out on that boat next summer. Maybe I would join them? I wish I could say yes, but I was always so far behind in my work. From our rosewood paneled perch I imagined having a life as an efficient scholar who could easily take a day off to rocket around the Goddess of Liberty on a speedboat with Kate and my boys. My students are shifting in their seats. They want to learn about lesson planning. We can learn more about this plane crash in about an hour, when class is over. But what if this very second Kate is fighting for her life? Or what if she is dead? How about her husband, who works in the Federal Reserve, just a few short blocks from the Twin Towers? How will I live with myself if I discover that I was teaching the rudiments of lesson planning while they were dying? And how could they be dying on this perfectly glorious day? My students and I sink into the world of teaching literature. We enjoy multiple readings of a poem and consider various methods for helping young people create personal meaning from it. We discover that a single poem can spark a multitude of excellent lessons, each reflecting a teacher’s goals and students’ learning needs. To close the class, I review a standard lesson plan format and several variations, encouraging students to experiment.
The tension from my anxious preparation has now melted into a relaxed glow.
I pack my papers into my briefcase and remember I must soon meet Suzana’s train. But there is also this plane thing. And Kate. I walk to my office and try calling her, but she is not answering. I quickly pack up my briefcase and head out to my car so I am not late for Suzana’s train. As I drive to the station, the radio informs me that all train service has been suspended. I consider heading back to the office and recouping some of this “found” time. But I am almost halfway home and feeling unsettled. When I pull into our driveway, I see my husband’s car. I learn that everyone has been sent home, including our children who soon race up our driveway excited to see that both mom and dad are home. They have not been told why they were sent home early. The day quickly becomes a strange twilight zone. Our mayor’s husband—last seen near the World Trade Towers—has disappeared. The train station’s parking lot remains full of cars—their owners may never return. Finally, we are able to reach my sister and her husband, who tell how they sheltered with others in the basement of the Federal Reserve, including a confused Japanese tourist pushing his baby in a stroller when the Federal Reserve security officers pulled him in from the sidewalk just ahead of a billowing cloud of debris. Automatic doors
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