To say 9-11 was a seminal moment in American history is a huge understatement. Most people of school age in 2001 can tell you exactly where they were that day. Though it’s 25 years since it happened, the events are seared into my memory as they must be in yours.
Sept. 11, 2001, started like nearly every other day in my busy life. I got ready and picked up a colleague who rode with me to school. We were close friends who shared the happenings in our lives during the pleasant 15-minute drive from Appleton to Riverview Middle School in downtown Kaukauna.
Classes had been in session for only a week; we were still adjusting to the routine. She pointed out how blue the sky was as we got out of the car and bemoaned the fact that we had to be inside on such a beautiful mid-September Tuesday.
I carried my teaching satchel filled with compositions written by my seventh-grade language arts students. Some of the papers needed grading, and I was determined to get it done during my third hour preparation time. I preferred doing this task at school where I could close the door to Room 209 and give their assignments my full attention.
As it happened, 209 shared a side doorway to 207, where my colleague, Gene Hardesty, taught social studies. Gene was a wonderful guy — a gentleman, devoted teacher and hard-working team member. A Navy veteran officer, he certainly didn’t fit my ill-informed stereotype of a sailor, all bluster, tattoos and profanity. (My apologies. Now I know better.)
Close to finishing the task before my next class, I was at my desk when I heard unfamiliar sounds emanating from his classroom. I surmised that his students were watching a PBS special. Suddenly, his classroom erupted. The hubbub escalated, which was as unusual as his unexpected appearance at my desk.
Obviously upset, Gene had left his classroom via the common door, something he’d never done before.
“They’re attacking us,” he said with tears in his eyes. “I need help.”
I knew full well not to ask what was wrong and hurriedly followed him. Was this a classroom mutiny? If so, what would I, or should I, do? I was relieved when we entered his classroom.
The kids were just sitting at their desks when a student in the back of the room pointed at the TV and yelled, “Look, Mrs. Marsh. Look!”
I did and was puzzled.
My first impression was that the kids were reacting to a harrowing air combat film. “What’s the big deal?” I thought. Gene saw my confusion and explained that a jetliner had struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York.
Mired in disbelief, I watched as the moment of impact was replayed. Then we were all in shock as new images of the South Tower being struck flashed across the screen.
When told that the Pentagon had also been hit, I knew Gene was right. This was no tragic accident. It was terrorism. That wasn’t all. In an ensuing act of incredible heroism, all passengers aboard Flight 93 were killed when it crashed in a Pennsylvania field. Their courage prevented a fourth attack intended to take out our entire government in Washington.
It requires a lot for seventh graders to walk quietly through hallways during change of classes and even more for them to calmly take their seats. I remember how silent and still they were, walking like robots into my classroom, obviously as shell-shocked as I was. My training and decades of experience had not prepared me for this.
Realizing the moment demanded something extraordinary, I dug deep. The class plan I’d written on the chalkboard was not going to cut it.
“I’ve made a decision,” I said in a subdued and soothing voice. “I think we need to talk this through. I’m sure you have questions and concerns. I want to hear from all of you, one at a time. If you prefer to pass when I call on you, that’s OK.”
It was amazing. I felt privileged to be allowed into their private space for those critical moments.
“Are they going to attack us too?” one asked.
Another said, “I’m thinking about kids who went to school today and won’t have parents when they get home.”
A usually self-assured girl admitted, “I feel so helpless. I hate it when that happens.”
A big and brawny farm kid asked, “Do you think the Army will take me if I lie about my age?”
I answered each one from the heart, and many parents thanked me later for providing comfort for their children on that terrible day.
“It worked both ways,” I replied. “Both ways.”
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
