Remembering ...

I was teaching on Tuesday, September 11^th, 2001. It was a normal morning, until it wasn’t.

In the teacher’s lounge early in the a.m., I heard the first of it. By the time school started, both towers in New York and the Pentagon had been hit, Flight 93 had crashed, the South Tower had fallen, and the North Tower had started to collapse.

My fifteen-year-old students were, in a word, confused. There was high emotion, anger, but mostly, there was disbelief. Think about how you felt that morning, waking up to terror.

We turned on the TV but the images were unreal. Far away.

Early in the morning the news was reporting that Al Qaeda was responsible. I could explain the word “terrorist,” for what it meant at the time. My students could study maps and internet pages for what “facts” we could find. I explained about the conflict of the Middle East in recent history, from the 1960’s on, something we hadn’t covered in World History at the start of school.

And then afterward, there were so many questions about who we should hate, and who the enemy was. Were the Arabs the enemy? Were the Muslims? What was the difference? I could explain that, at least.

Sitting in class with students in the East Bay Area, it was easy to point out that there was no race or religion that was to blame. These were our classmates, our friends. Our people.

It’s easier when diversity is right in front of you. It must be harder when your world is smaller, because that night, when I went home and watched TV, I saw fear. I saw people blaming Arabs for the attack. I heard that Muslims, one and all, were out to get us.

Being a history lover and, you know, a human, I was alarmed. Similar sentiments caused the Japanese internment in the 1940s, a great stain on the canvas of American history. On a more extreme and terrifying level, I had read similar justifications for The Holocaust.

So I talked about it with my friends, and my family, and my students. Some listened, others didn’t, but it brought me back, as questions always do, to history. In the chaos that was Ellis Island and mass immigration, one artist was able to capture a critical sentiment in a poem:

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

These are my people. And unless you are a descendant of a native, you are my people, too. I don’t know much about my ancestors, but guaranteed they were lucky to get across from whence they came, thrilled to work, happy to have a chance.  

Recall, Americans, that regardless of your origin, you are an immigrant. You are the result of someone risking life and limb to become part of this great country of ours.

So, on the tenth anniversary of the attacks, I remember the fallen and the heroes of that day. I also remember that our nation is stronger because of its diversity. Let us not forget that in the days after 9/11 there was cooperation and patriotism, but there was also confusion and fear. We have the freedom to honor each other for our differences every day. Let us not forget.

Nostalgia and Fresh Starts

My son Erik starts first grade today. He's six. He's tall and adorable and growing up so so fast.

I used to teach, and this time of year always fills me with such profound, visceral excitement, even now that I've been out of the classroom for eight (!) years. As a teacher, I reveled in the smell of new school supplies, the order of the untouched classroom, the reinvention of lesson plans, and the inspiration of new ideas and challenges. All of that mixed together meant a down-to-the-toes adrenaline rush. Of course, then the kids show up and you start counting the days until Thanksgiving break. But that's not the point. The point is: new school year = fresh start. Excitement.

But now I'm a mommy, and the excitement of the new school year is blended with anxiety over new teachers, class placement, and general queasiness over academic and social tangles that my over-protective self wants to shield from my baby. He's not a baby though. He's six. And he can do this.

Anyway, the new school year always inspires nostalgia, too. Those of you who know me are aware that our family had a non-traditional start. Erik is from Russia, and we adopted him when he was 14 months old. My husband Ryan and I kept a blog throughout our journey, and both the process of writing the posts and the incredibly supportive comments we received almost literally kept us sane during that time. It was raw, and emotional, and supportive, and lovely, and important. I loved that connection. I was grateful for every comment, every site visit.

We stopped posting shortly after we arrived home. Not because we wanted to, but because life as a newly-minted family with two jobs and an energetic toddler was not conducive to creative thought, or any thought for that matter.

Now, almost five years later, I’m nostalgic. So I thought I’d reach out. Let you know what is going on with us, things I’m thinking about, or trying, or anything that strikes my fancy.

I hope you enjoy, and I hope you comment!