Aftermath of an Afterthought

I feel a huge sense of relief

I do not have to

teach

on Sept. 11.

I wonder why this is?

2001

I hear the news

at a coffee shop

in Colorado.

The milkman

brings horror

served with cream and

milk; full fat or skim.

Pre cell phone

I dash to my car,

rush home,

call

New York,

Manhattan,

The City.

Where is Sister,

her family?

No one

can get through.

The family agrees

only Dad will

call . . .

all day . . .

until we hear,

standing on the sidewalk . . .

perhaps holdings hands,

Sister and her little ones

looked up and

watched

The World

fall down.

Sister says,

for a moment

The City stopped.

So I go to

work.

What else

does one do

when waiting?

I’m new,

naïve, a

first year professor.

I find a TV.

I watch,

wait, and

teach

my first class,

first semester,

an

introductory

doctoral

qualitative

methodology

research

course.

Did I tell the students

about Sister?

I think not.

My southern facade

might crack

(we don’t do that).

I may start crying

in front of

twenty

students.

A student,

writes in his

research journal.

I should

NOT

have

held class.

Devastated,

I see he is correct.

It is not for everyone

to

work

while

we

wait.

It seems

I teach

on every

Sept. 11.

I carefully chose

911 readings

from research, perhaps

research poetry, and

take a

moment

to honor

this date,

the dead,

my family’s

good fortune.

Ten years later,

now old and savvy?

I lead a discussion on

Sept. 11 readings.

A student

shrugging

shoulders

says,

“I really don’t think about IT anymore.

After all, IT happened in New York

and didn’t have much effect here.”

I am ANGRY (or maybe just tired).

Was student just seventeen

that day, so long ago

it is now an

afterthought?

I’m an

inclusive teacher,

RIGHT?

I should honor this?

What did I say?

Perhaps some

lame comment

such as,

“That’s interesting.”

Far from The City,

in the

Colorado heartland

how

can I

MAKE

someone

UNDERSTAND

this event

is the

Magnificent Rockies

pushed into the plains,

crumbled by a

hand with

evil intent?

Aftermath?

I am relieved

I will not teach this year.

I am scared my

façade would

crumble

mimicking towers,

blazing infernos as

I reach out,

grab shoulders,

screaming.