When I thought about what I might want to write in commemoration of 9/11, there was no question about the focus. There are lots of heroes and lots more ordinary people who did heroic acts. But my heart is with the teachers and staff in those schools near Ground Zero – the “schools that fled.”
September 11th dawned a beautiful, sunny day in New York. As they rode busses and subways to work, many teachers likely reviewed their class lists and pictured the smiling faces of their new students on this fifth day of school.
As events unfolded that day, teachers were concerned when they heard the loud crash, but even upon learning that one of the towers was on fire, everyone expected that first responders would put it out. They always put out the fire, even in high rises.
When scenes of desperation were apparent out the windows, teachers moved their students into hallways or basements, waiting for the situation to stabilize. Once it was clear they had to evacuate, the first tower had collapsed and it was dark. Breathing was difficult. The miracle was that not a single child was left behind, lost, forgotten, or even seriously injured. Aides carried disabled children out on their backs. Teachers led long lines of students, chanting, “Just don’t let go of the hand you’re holding,” even as panicked adults ran past them. Spouses who showed up hoping to convince their loved one to run were conscripted into carrying the slowest child so the group could move more quickly. One staff person ran back against the wave of chaos to check to see whether the class in the basement of the building – the class with deaf students and a deaf teacher – had heard the call to evacuate. They hadn’t. And there was the principal of a high school adjacent to Ground Zero. She stayed focused on getting all of her high school students down to Battery Park and put them on any boat that would take them anywhere off Manhattan, all the while knowing that her sister worked on the 105th floor of the north tower. Though they knew in their hearts that her sister had died, a DNA match was confirmed to the family at the end of December.
In Chinatown, two of the counselors slept in the school that night because they couldn’t get out of Manhattan. In the morning, two mothers of their students knocked on the school door, delivering Chinese breakfasts to two grateful counselors. Those counselors went on to provide little five-minute moments of advice for their community over Chinese radio stations because cultural norms were that families were unlikely to ask directly for help.
At the end of that first year, there was a sudden surge of anxiety for the younger teachers. They’d made it through the year because every Monday morning there was a room full of bright smiles that were looking forward to another school day. They worried that the void of summer would likely foster reflections that had not yet surfaced. Some were concerned they wouldn’t have the courage to return to school in the fall.
But I didn’t worry about that. They came back. We all came back. On the anniversary, I watched hundreds of elementary students open precious little boxes and release butterflies into another beautiful sunny September 11th morning. Media covered hundreds of moments of commemoration by schools all over the city, and the entire US. This day, one year later, the country watched coverage and engaged in local events.
And then there was the collective sigh of relief on September 12th. That was the real beginning of the new normal. They moved into days filled with joy and homework and field trips and quizzes and all of what we knew school to be, but with a new level of awareness and appreciation. We all had become a changed people. We were amazed at their tenacity, we were a wiser bunch, and we recognized that when no outside help can get there, ordinary people take extraordinary actions in the best interests of others, especially for kids.