That morning, she was on her way there.Īs soon as I reached the main office of my school, I pleaded with the administrative staff to let me use the phone to call my mother. My mom would often point out Stuyvesant High School when we would drive down the West Side Highway or walk around TriBeca or buy tickets for Broadway shows in the atrium of the World Trade Center. I knew this because even though my birth certificate indicates something different, I was partially raised in the city. She often had appointments at Stuyvesant High School, a building that is just blocks away from the World Trade Center. She was in educational sales and her territory covered all five boroughs. The tragedy was now real to me.ĭespite the fact that my family’s residence at the time was in upstate New York, in a small mill town built on the banks of the Hudson River that hugged the Vermont border, my mother worked in New York City. That’s when I realized I needed to call my mother, immediately. That’s where I first saw the images of the plane crash. When the bell rang, I walked down the hall to my current events class, where our teacher routinely had a TV playing in the back of the room so he could watch the news while he taught. I’m sure I was distracted but we were discussing books and I love discussing books. I don’t have any more information than that.”Ī hush fell over us, but we proceeded with class as normal. “I just heard that a plane hit the World Trade Center.” The class began to laugh awkwardly. I was sitting in my second period senior English class when my teacher, who was known for his sarcasm, delivered the news.
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