THURSDAY THOUGHTS: MEMORIES

Twenty-four years ago, today, I was teaching my first period, Elementary Art class, at the now closed, Patricia Roberts Harris Educational Center. It was an "open space" school. There were no windows, and most classrooms didn't have doors. 

I was so surprised and happy when I looked up and saw my friends, Freddye Jackson and Mia Murphy, standing at the entrance to my classroom, but their faces weren't displaying their usual cheer. "We came to get you.", they whispered, as I greeted them. “You have to get out of here!" 

As I was talking to them, a teacher, who will remain nameless, took advantage of the morning's sudden chaos, and lined up her entire class--my second period class-- right outside of my classroom. I pointed to the clock. "My planning period is coming up", she said to me, as she rushed for the exit door. She had on her coat, and was clutching her keys and purse. I knew what that meant. She wasn’t coming back. I would now have two classes on my hands, and still wasn’t sure why. I told the confused students to come in, and find seats wherever they could, but most of the children didn't stay long. Over and over, the main office’s secretary, Yvonne Sherrod’s weary voice could be heard over the PA system. “Excuse the interruption. ___________, please report to the main office, prepared to go home." 

Most frantic parents, however, didn't bother stopping by the office, and just rushed through the building to classrooms and pods, to find their children. Many zoomed by my classroom not knowing their children weren't in their homerooms, but in Art class. "Ms. Williams, that was my mother!", shouted one child after another, and I allowed them to chase after their parents to keep them from heading all the way from Pod A to C.

With no radios or TV’s on, the faculty and staff had no idea what had taken place in New York, let alone Pennsylvania nor Arlington. The first rumor I heard from a terrified parent, was that The Capitol building had been bombed. 

I knew I couldn't leave the kids. I told them they could talk amongst themselves, gave them stacks of paper, and allowed them to draw or paint whatever they wanted, and use as much of the materials as they could. 

While they worked, Mia and Freddye filled me in on the tragedy.

Eventually, the number of kids, who’d been sharing seats in the room, dwindled. Some, whose parents who worked in Virginia, would not be picked up right away. 

Freddye and Mia eventually left, too—to get food for everyone. They came back, and stayed in my classroom, helping me to keep the children calm, until the last child's parent arrived. It was after 4 PM. 

Even though I lived within walking distance of the school, Freddye and Mia drove me home.

I always think of them, every 9/11, and their kindness, concern, and generosity—as well as the multitude of drawings and paintings of either angels, airplanes, or cityscapes, that ensued for many weeks after.