Can we try again, America?

Nineteen years ago today, I stepped out of my first grown-up apartment for my second day at my first “real job” as a school guidance counselor. 

It was a crisp, beautiful early fall day. I paused before sliding into my 1996 Honda Accord, just to take in the cloudless blue sky, and have my own little Mary Tyler Moore moment.

My day started with an early morning meeting at the middle school in my new school district. I don’t remember who was there or what we discussed, but I vividly recall walking back out to my car, feeling like a full-on adult who now attended real meetings and discussed important issues. 

I tossed my leather work bag onto the passenger seat. I had to make it across town by 9:00 for a meeting at the elementary school. As part of my new grown-up identity, I had been regularly listening to NPR. I started my car and immediately heard urgency in the broadcast. I backed out of the parking space and tried to process what the reporter was saying- a plane that had taken off from Boston, just 20 miles north of the small community where I was now working, had hit one of the twin towers.

I quickly drove across town, fixated on the confusion coming out of New York, accounting for friends and family who may or may not have been in the city or on the plane. Somehow, I was still aware of not being late for my 9:00 meeting.  

I walked into the elementary school office, preparing to let my new colleagues know what had happened. 

I was confused to find the front office deserted, but heard the radio coming from my new principal’s office. I dropped my bag on my office floor and silently joined the principal, Mr. Evans, the school secretary, and two people I didn’t know yet. At that exact moment, a second plane hit the second tower. I looked at the group of people around the radio. I don’t remember what anyone said- but I’ll never forget how their faces looked. Something was very wrong.

Mr. Evans looked at me and said, “Come on Kid, we need to tell the teachers to check on their families.” 

I followed him, jogging a little to keep up as he powered through a long stretch of hallway. 

I was newly 24-years-old. It was my second day as a guidance counselor. Something was very, very wrong in our country. My new boss was telling me that I needed to share this news with colleagues I didn't know yet. I had no idea what to do. 

I trailed Mr. Evans through the second and third grade wing as he calmly entered each classroom, greeted the kids with a joke and a warm friendly smile, and asked to speak to the  teacher in the hallway. He quietly let each teacher know that there was an emergency in New York involving a plane that took off from Boston. He asked if we were needed to cover the class so they could call home from the office to check on family. 

Most teachers didn’t need to call, but some had spouses traveling or college-aged kids in New York. I stuck right by Mr. Evans for five or six classrooms, mimicking his calm demeanor, introducing myself to hundreds of students I had not yet met.

Mr. Evans asked me to take one side of the hallway while he took the other.  I nodded as a fourth grade teacher hurried toward us on her way back from the office. She let us know that a third plane had hit the Pentagon. I watched closely as Mr. Evans took in the news, calmly nodded, and moved on to the next classroom. 

Fifteen classrooms and an additional plane crash later, we had informed the whole staff. My brand new boss looked at me and asked me to write a statement to the families of our 500 students advising them on how to share this news with their kids. I typed up something with shaking hands. I did my best. 

I don’t remember much about the rest of that work day- but I do remember my drive home. 

NPR reported that our country was under a terror attack. On that particular afternoon, I somehow saw through vehicles and could only notice the drivers- people who were just as stunned, pale, or confused as I was- and they were looking back at me.

While I was stopped at a traffic light close to my new apartment, the reality of September 11, 2001 began to sink in. I felt a huge sob escape me. I put my car in park and rested my head on the steering wheel, and cried out with with a grief that I didn’t recognize. I heard a firm tap on my car window and saw a college classmate, who I knew peripherally, standing there. He opened my car door, and pulled me out of my car into a very tight hug. We cried together in the middle of the busy intersection. No one honked- they just gently drove around us, presumably trying to get home to their people so they could cry, too. 

I don’t remember the rest of the drive home, but I know that classmate followed me to be sure I was ok. I don’t think I ever saw him again, but I remember how he made me feel. I remember how every other driver on the road made me feel. I remember how every new colleague, and how every random person at the grocery store in the following weeks made me feel. I didn’t feel safe, but I felt cared for. And connected. And American. That meant something. 

We all have our story of that day.

Nineteen years later, we are moving through an entirely different kind of national emergency. Safety is once again a fleeting feeling. This time, I’m not sure what I feel… but I know it’s not connected. 

I miss you, America. I’m sad that we’ve lost our way from one another. We don’t need to agree on everything, or even most things, but we used to be able to get through the hard things together. I’m really afraid about how far we’ve drifted, but I don’t think it’s too late for us to find our way back together. 

I’m sorry for my part in our divide. 

Can we please try harder?