“Are we safe here?” Remembering 9/11 in a College Classroom

It was a beautiful Tuesday morning, sunny and warm, when I reached my faculty office at 7:45 to complete preparations for my first lecture of the new semester.  As always, I was excited for a new year of teaching:  who would my students be, how would they surprise and inform me, how would my teaching evolve as I learned their personalities and levels of engagement.  Having introduced the course and myself to the class at our first meeting a few days earlier, I felt ready for my initial lecture at 9:30 that morning.

It was September 11, 2001, and I was in Boston.  Less than five miles away, planes were leaving Boston Logan International Airport on their routine schedules, many of them heading as usual to New York City.  As they lifted off the runway, these planes would fly low over my son’s new school, where he was in his first week as a high school freshman.

Classical music played on the radio as I focused on reviewing and making small changes to my lecture notes.  I became only vaguely aware at some point that the music had stopped, and that some news–of a crash or an explosion somewhere?–was being reported.  I worked on. Continue reading ““Are we safe here?” Remembering 9/11 in a College Classroom”

High School Homeroom

We were sitting around the family dinner table that night in late September when my father called for our attention.  Then, as easily as he might announce a family outing to a movie theater next week, he told his children that we were moving from Indiana.  To another state.  In mid-December.

I was horrified.  This could not be happening.

Dad explained that he had taken a new job at a major architectural firm in Minneapolis, starting in only a few weeks, and that Mom and the kids would follow him to Minnesota at the Christmas school break in three months.  In the interim, he would shop for a house for the family.

I was 15 and I had just begun my junior year in high school. Continue reading “High School Homeroom”

Father’s Day Fever

I was passing through the kitchen one night when my father, alone there, called me over.  Then he did something very unusual.  Well past the time when I thought such a thing could happen, he pickb5418bedbd5b9978cd81176259a0ddfa--fist-bump-newborn-photographyed me off the ground as if I was still a toddler and hugged me close.  Then, lips to ear, he asked me a secret.  “Tell me,” he said softly, so as not to be overheard elsewhere in the house, “that you will love me no matter what I do.”

I found his words more mystifying even than his lifting me off the floor.  I didn’t understand them as foreboding.  After all, he was my dad.  I remember pausing to try to figure out what he was talking about before I answered him.  Nothing came to me, and all I could think of to say was, “Sure I will, Dad.”

I was 10 years old. Continue reading “Father’s Day Fever”

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