September 11 and the Importance of School
On September 11, 2001, I was the Headmaster of Friends Academy in Locust Valley, New York, a New York City bedroom community, twenty-five miles east on the north shore of Long Island. Friends Academy has much in common with St. Margaret’s – co-ed, pre-school through grade 12, day school with a strong religious affiliation (Quaker as opposed to Episcopalian). Our parents there were much like those here – hardworking, successful, caring and deeply committed to the education and well being of their children. Some also worked in the World Trade Center. Most were either out of town that day or able to escape. One died – John Robinson Lenoir, Vice President at Sandler O’Neill & Partners, husband of Susan and father of Andrew and Courtney. Rob’s office was on the 104th floor of the South Tower. He had no chance.
Andrew Lenoir is now a senior at Brown University and yesterday in The Huffington Post he offered his thoughts and reflections ten years later. (Click here to read) In this powerful and moving piece, he comments, “This Sept. 11, the memorial at ground zero is opening for the first time, and as a country we are no closer to agreeing upon what it is we want to remember.” His point is well taken especially when we are encouraged to “never forget.” What is it that we don’t want to forget and how are we to remember this terribly tragic day? We do it in our own way, from our own perspective. This is mine.
When the day began on that crystal clear Tuesday, our 6th grade was on a retreat in Rhode Island and our 7th grade departed at 8:00 a.m. for their retreat in upstate New York. At 8:46 when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center, the busses carrying our 7th graders were in the middle of the Throgs Neck Bridge heading north toward New England. Faculty members in cars leading the busses heard the news and looked back down the East River where smoke was billowing from lower Manhattan. Once across the bridge and realizing that something had gone terribly wrong in New York, the leader of the trip called school to ask for advice. At the time we had no idea what was really happening and all we could advise was to keep moving and we’d talk again soon when we knew more. Of course, shortly thereafter the South Tower was hit and Long Island and the rest of the country were in a state of emergency.
As the day unfolded, the 7th graders continued on to their destination and we advised both groups that we were on a wait-and-see basis as to next steps. At school we gathered students by division, explained what we knew and that school would continue for the remainder of the day. Understandably, we received hundreds of phone calls from parents asking about our plans and in some cases, asking if we were going to bring the 6th and 7th graders home early. Initially, we had no choice but to respond that until further notice, we had no way to get anyone either on or off Long Island. The bridges were closed and ferry service was precarious at best.
At some point in the early afternoon, one of our parents who happened to have two children on the retreats called and extended his support in the event we wanted to try to bring the Middle School students home. He was very clear in his comments – the decision was entirely ours, it was not at all certain where any one of us was most out of harm’s way, he was fine with leaving the students where they were, but if we needed him, he was there and he believed he could make a difference. My normal reaction to parental requests to bring students home early from retreats is usually a polite but firm “no.” This time, however, was different. It was not a matter of homesickness or over-protective parents, but rather an imperative to honor a basic and powerful parental instinct in times of crisis to have our children home with us, under the same roof, if at all possible. It was abundantly clear that if we could pull it off, we needed to bring the students home.
As day turned to evening, we learned that one of our parents was missing in the World Trade Center. We also knew that his 6th grade son was among the students and faculty members being transported from northern New York and Rhode Island to New London and Bridgeport, Connecticut where they were ferried across Long Island Sound to busses waiting to bring them back to Locust Valley. It was an extraordinary effort and to this day, I am not entirely sure how all this was accomplished. What I do know, however, is that for those parents gathered in the school parking lot that evening, nothing was more important than being reunited with their children.
Few memories in my lifetime are as vivid or as moving as the scene late that evening (it was nearly midnight) when the busses rolled in and were immediately engulfed by a flood of eager, grateful parents. As the students descended the steps into the loving arms of their parents, my understanding and appreciation of the importance of school changed forever. None of us is ever fully prepared for the vulnerability of parenthood, and that evening illustrated this delicate frailty more than words can possibly describe. A day that had begun with such brilliant sunshine and abundant promise had turned so deeply tragic and dark, but for those families there that evening, with one heart-wrenching exception, their universe for the moment at least was whole again.
Even though the passage of time has rounded the edges and softened the memory somewhat, the image of that day and the powerful message it conveyed has remained vivid in my soul for the past ten years. As I vow to “never forget,” I hold fast to the importance of school in the lives of our children and their families and the critical role we play in providing a safe harbor in a sea of uncertainty and occasional turbulence. We may not always be of one mind but in the end, there is no higher calling than honoring the trust our parents bestow on us each and every day as we love and care for “our” children.