Examiner column for May 4.
Each September 11, my memories are of the classroom. I was teaching a combined class of Advanced Placement English and AP Government. The 56 high school seniors who stayed with me and my co-teacher while we watched events unfold, taught me a great deal about grief and dignity under duress.
Being with teenagers that day meant I had to be “strong” for my charges; but what happened is that they supported me with the questions I would have been embarrassed to ask in the company of adults: “How can this happen in America? How could we not have known such a conspiracy was taking place? Will our country ever be the same? Will we ever get over this fear?”
My students went through the stages of mourning: shock and disbelief, anger, depression, and eventual resignation that everything would be different in the future. Because I wore the mantle of teacher, I was able to observe and internalize their reactions—which kept my own in check. I will always be grateful for my students’ wisdom during this crisis.
Since that moment, every student I’ve taught has carried September 11 with them, and many have chosen to write or talk about those events as part of their own healing process. Last week one of my Advanced Composition students wrote a paper about her mother’s battle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after surviving the attack on the Pentagon. Elizabeth focused on how her mother’s condition affected the family, and the frustration in having no one specific to blame. I hope she and her family will find some measure of closure with the death of Bin Laden, although his death will not erase the trauma of her mother’s experience, nor the burdens PTSD places on Elizabeth and her siblings.
Readers of this column, as well, have shared their experiences with me. In September 2009, I received an account of the Pentagon attack from Harry Armstrong, who was a Criminal Investigator with the Department of Defense and part of the Pentagon Recovery Team. His memories are both moving and revealing: the Admiral who pulled ten people in his agency to safety, burning over 70% of his body in the process and refusing to be called a hero; the search for evidence scooped up by bulldozers, yielding the Koran of one of the terrorists, two-thirds intact.
Harry observed that the letters his team received from children “lifted our spirits and kept us going. For the next 6-8 weeks, this would be our life: 12-hour days sifting through death and destruction. We knew it was for our country and it left us with a sense of pride.” His pride mirrors the pride we all felt at those who lost their lives or labored to account for those who died.
Osama Bin Laden was a symbol of evil—a symbol that will satisfy the need for symmetry in our fight against terrorism and extremism. His death, however, does not erase the pain of many who still carry the sting, ten years later. For a teacher and columnist, it has been illuminating to see how narratives of individual accounts have helped so many recover from that trauma. Writing doesn’t make the pain go away, but it gives pain and loss a shape—one we can all learn from.
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