offmason
01-03-2010, 11:47 PM
Even though I lived across the street from school, most mornings I woke up just in time to be late. This particular morning was no different, other than the fact that it was unusually tranquil. At around 8:00 a.m. streets throughout Brooklyn, New York are littered with both vehicular and pedestrian traffic and their associated noise. As I briskly walked to school, it seemed as though everyone decided to take a break from being busy that day. The hustle and bustle was at a minimum.
When I finally did make it to class, my teacher was already fifteen minutes deep into her English lecture. I entered the classroom without being noticed. A tardy student body is not a thing of myth in the New York public school system. Upon taking my seat, I began to feel cramps deep within my stomach. It was a common occurrence. Before running off to school, I would hastily swallow my breakfast - soggy Rice Krispies. It never did cooperate with my digestive system. Soon enough, the day brought such calamity that my fear numbed this pain.
At around 9:00 a.m., my teacher was called into the hallway by a school secretary. Several minutes later, my teacher had returned to class and told us that we were not to leave the room. She stood at the front of the classroom, visibly at a loss of words. Her olive complexion looked as if it were bleeding color, becoming paler by the second. She left the classroom once again, into a boisterous hallway - the door slowly closing behind her.
My teacher did not return for quite some time. After approximately a half-hour of restlessness, my good friend Sandra Hossman remembered that she kept a small radio in her backpack. My fellow classmates and I huddled around it as she kindly turned it on. We all tuned in, wanting to keep ourselves occupied – hoping to listen to some music. Instead, we were astounded by reports of tragedy, mass confusion and startling inhumanity.
In the nearby borough of Manhattan, planes were smashing into the World Trade Center. Initially, the notion of terrorism was too remote a possibility to hypothesize. Seeking innocence in the turmoil, we rationalized that a small plane might have accidentally gone astray and tragically struck a tower. Explaining away the second plane was a bit more onerous. Indecisive reports of hijackings were flooding the airwaves. It was speculated that around eight planes were overtaken. We heard the unfathomable news that the South Tower has collapsed. I quickly dismissed the report. It was nonsense to think that one of those massive towers could succumb to small commuter planes! We all disingenuously imagined that the planes were small models, such as the Cessna or other small aircraft. As a class, it was difficult to think otherwise.
The classroom door slowly opened and my friend Frankie Eldiano cautiously peers in. He exclaims that “you can see the city from the fourth floor window!” Everyone files out of the classroom and follows Frankie’s lead as he quickly returns to his vantage point on the upper-floor. Teachers in the hallway beckon us to return to our designated classrooms; however, no student heeds their calls. We all find ourselves crowded beside a tiny window, the only window that displays the horrifying sight.
Just beyond the Verrazzano Bridge, a grim cloud had engulfed what was the World Trade Center. Mere moments into our witnessing the spectacle, I watched as the lone tower crumbled. As the debris began to rush towards earth, many students surrounding me let out a grunt in unison. I have heard the sound before. As a child, I remember witnessing a car accident. Immediately before the cars smashed into one another, I made a similar sound. I can only describe it as a subconscious attempt to warn the drivers. I knew that my attempted warning would fall upon deaf ears, but my body expelled the sound involuntarily. A plum of smoke substituted the once dominant structure. An eerie quiet came over us.
Some students slowly walked to class, not sure what to make of the experience. I didn’t go back. Within a few minutes I found myself outside of the school building. The smoke from the downtown destruction enveloped Brooklyn. The air had darkened considerably. I watched as a few cars drove by. I gazed into the sky. What will the day bring next? I ran home. Within reach of my doorstep, I nervously fumbled for my keys. Sensing my presence, my mother opened the door. Into my mother’s arms I leapt. I remembered that she was supposed to visit Century 21 that morning, a department store not more than a city block from ground zero. Many children were not as lucky as I was. The once tranquil day became an epic disaster for many families.
Although I came in late to class that day, I was just in time to witness mass murder. It was not until many months later that I came to appreciate this notion.
When I finally did make it to class, my teacher was already fifteen minutes deep into her English lecture. I entered the classroom without being noticed. A tardy student body is not a thing of myth in the New York public school system. Upon taking my seat, I began to feel cramps deep within my stomach. It was a common occurrence. Before running off to school, I would hastily swallow my breakfast - soggy Rice Krispies. It never did cooperate with my digestive system. Soon enough, the day brought such calamity that my fear numbed this pain.
At around 9:00 a.m., my teacher was called into the hallway by a school secretary. Several minutes later, my teacher had returned to class and told us that we were not to leave the room. She stood at the front of the classroom, visibly at a loss of words. Her olive complexion looked as if it were bleeding color, becoming paler by the second. She left the classroom once again, into a boisterous hallway - the door slowly closing behind her.
My teacher did not return for quite some time. After approximately a half-hour of restlessness, my good friend Sandra Hossman remembered that she kept a small radio in her backpack. My fellow classmates and I huddled around it as she kindly turned it on. We all tuned in, wanting to keep ourselves occupied – hoping to listen to some music. Instead, we were astounded by reports of tragedy, mass confusion and startling inhumanity.
In the nearby borough of Manhattan, planes were smashing into the World Trade Center. Initially, the notion of terrorism was too remote a possibility to hypothesize. Seeking innocence in the turmoil, we rationalized that a small plane might have accidentally gone astray and tragically struck a tower. Explaining away the second plane was a bit more onerous. Indecisive reports of hijackings were flooding the airwaves. It was speculated that around eight planes were overtaken. We heard the unfathomable news that the South Tower has collapsed. I quickly dismissed the report. It was nonsense to think that one of those massive towers could succumb to small commuter planes! We all disingenuously imagined that the planes were small models, such as the Cessna or other small aircraft. As a class, it was difficult to think otherwise.
The classroom door slowly opened and my friend Frankie Eldiano cautiously peers in. He exclaims that “you can see the city from the fourth floor window!” Everyone files out of the classroom and follows Frankie’s lead as he quickly returns to his vantage point on the upper-floor. Teachers in the hallway beckon us to return to our designated classrooms; however, no student heeds their calls. We all find ourselves crowded beside a tiny window, the only window that displays the horrifying sight.
Just beyond the Verrazzano Bridge, a grim cloud had engulfed what was the World Trade Center. Mere moments into our witnessing the spectacle, I watched as the lone tower crumbled. As the debris began to rush towards earth, many students surrounding me let out a grunt in unison. I have heard the sound before. As a child, I remember witnessing a car accident. Immediately before the cars smashed into one another, I made a similar sound. I can only describe it as a subconscious attempt to warn the drivers. I knew that my attempted warning would fall upon deaf ears, but my body expelled the sound involuntarily. A plum of smoke substituted the once dominant structure. An eerie quiet came over us.
Some students slowly walked to class, not sure what to make of the experience. I didn’t go back. Within a few minutes I found myself outside of the school building. The smoke from the downtown destruction enveloped Brooklyn. The air had darkened considerably. I watched as a few cars drove by. I gazed into the sky. What will the day bring next? I ran home. Within reach of my doorstep, I nervously fumbled for my keys. Sensing my presence, my mother opened the door. Into my mother’s arms I leapt. I remembered that she was supposed to visit Century 21 that morning, a department store not more than a city block from ground zero. Many children were not as lucky as I was. The once tranquil day became an epic disaster for many families.
Although I came in late to class that day, I was just in time to witness mass murder. It was not until many months later that I came to appreciate this notion.