Formaldehyde

I was teaching an English as a Foreign Language class in Boston’s Chinatown when one of my student’s phone rang. Ignoring all protocol, he picked it up. Aggravated, I reminded him that this was not allowed. He ignored me; a look of consternation took over his face. Moto, as we affectionately called him, said his mother had just informed him that a plane had just crashed into one of the World Trade Center buildings. I did not believe him and continued with the class. 

During the break immediately following this class, I found our assistant watching not one, but two planes go into the Twin Towers. Over. And over. And over. In a daze, we all went to the lounge where the TV was located. We sat there, teachers, students and administrators, trying to make sense of these events. There were rumors that a plane was heading towards Boston’s Financial District. Just one block away. 

Given the circumstances, my boss gave us the day off. We could either go home or stay with the students. I stayed. My students were foreign. They were far away from home during an international crisis; far from the comforts of family and safety. We tried to retain some sense of normalcy. I gave my Conversational Class in the afternoon. 

From my classroom overlooking Beach Street, I witnessed a mass of bodies walk from the financial district towards South Station. My students and I listened to the radio, trying to figure out what had actually happened. Talking seemed to make the fear more real yet also bearable. Sometimes we would lapse into broody silence, everyone thinking privately what this meant to them. I wondered if the news of a plane heading towards Boston’s financial district was true. After all, the planes that hit the towers there had left from Logan Airport. That was no surprise.I had always thought the security there alarmingly scarce.

I went back to my apartment on a deserted B line train during rush hour – a first. There was no noise on the train save the stop announcements. No one was on the streets. At home, the images of people plunging to their deaths got seared into my brain. By nightfall, I had a massive migraine. Still, I could not tear myself away from the TV. I don’t think anyone could. 

Since 9/11, I have seen crowds cheer at the deaths of Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. I have made new friends and old ones have become persona non grata. My faith in myself and humanity have crumbled and been redeemed and restored. Love has left my life. It has also come to me from unexpected people and situations. I think back on my students on 9/11; far away from home during an international crisis, without the comforts of family and safety to shelter their thoughts. Yet we were together. I may not remember all of their names but collectively, we were there for each other.

If there is anything I have learned since 9/11 is that instead of fear and hate, we need to love one another more.

While packing for my move, I wish I had thought of this long ago.

I am curious by nature, which made me a good journalist and a very annoying child. No one liked leaving me unattended in a room for fear they might find me rummaging through their belongings. Curious, indeed. 

The drawer where I keep such ridiculous mementos as postcards bought in museums, receipts for items I purchased, cards from restaurants I ate, notes written by people I no longer keep in touch with, is still unpacked.  

I’d like to have my memories neatly contained in a jar, dated, with a handmade label, and put away in the closet, to be rummaged through when feeling nostalgic or when in need of an adventure. 

jackandhall:

I absolutely love this “memory jar” idea. Throughout the year, record special days or funny things that occurred onto slips of paper and store them in a jar. At the end of the year(or whenever you need a pick-me-up), read through them all and enjoy!

xxJack