Alan Jackson's song,
“Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning on that September
Morn?” came to mind this week as we approached the anniversary of
September 11, 2001.
Life was idyllic for me as
a first year rural teacher on that September morn. Teaching band and
choir to about 175 students, I drove 45 miles on narrow, hilly
country roads, greeting deer, horses, cows, llamas and alpacas as
they poked their noses out on the roads to see who was intruding on
their playground.
Although I just
finished extended weekend Army Reserve duty in Omaha, Nebraska, my
peaceful drive to school on Tuesday morning reminded me it was a
good choice to put military life behind me.
As I neared school, NPR
announcers began describing a plane accident in lower Manhattan. I
switched stations, as I did not want to cloud my brilliantly sunny
day with images of a major plane accident.
In my first hour,
junior high band students ran into the class, and begged me to turn
on the television to watch “the Terrorist Attack in New York.”
After checking with my colleagues to confirm what was happening, I
declined to turn on our classroom television. “No, you can watch
this tonight with your parents. Let's take out our instruments.”
We played the National
Anthem, with reverence. Then, the band played “God Bless the
U.S.A., which we were learning for Veteran's Day. All day long, my
students sang and played patriotic and faith-filled songs. The choir
sang “Amazing Grace,” and “From a Distance.” Fifth graders
were not concerned at all that the world had stopped turning. They
honked on their clarinet mouthpieces and buzzed their trumpet
mouthpieces as if they were in the woods hunting ducks with their
families.
That afternoon, I drove
40 miles to the university for my french horn lesson, numb from
listening to sober radio reports. My very young professor probably
thought I was being ultra-dramatic when I said to him, “We are at
war. The most intelligent thing that happened today was that the
airlines were shut down once we figured out we were being attacked.”
Later in the week, my
high school students wanted to discuss the attacks in class. They
had all kinds of theories about who our enemies were. When I told my
students I performed many wedding ceremonies at the World Trade
Center Towers, and so, it saddened me to think of all the couples
who might have been at the site on that day, they asked why I was
crazy enough to move to rural America. They could not imagine how a
world traveler could choose to live in such remote conditions where
“nothing ever happens!”
“Ah, but, that's why
I moved to rural America,” I told them. “Nothing like that would
ever happen to us out here. We are safe from all that chaos and
violence.”
I never promoted
military service after Nine-Eleven, because I could not imagine
putting my students in harm's way. It is my hope, as a teacher, to
provide possibilities that have nothing to do with war and violence.
On Nine-Eleven
anniversaries, I often play Alan Jackson's tender ballad, because it
expresses the deepest American values that enrich us, and it puts us
in touch with the humanity that will bring us real safety and
security in this world:
I'm just a singer of
simple songs
I'm not a real
political man
I watch CNN but I'm
not sure I can tell
You the difference in
Iraq and Iran.
But I know Jesus and I
talk to God
And I remember this
from when I was young
Faith, hope and love
are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is
love.
Thirteen years later, we
still can't tell the difference between Iraq and Iran. I don't know
if it is possible to turn our national hearts and minds toward the
path of love, but, I sure do think we have to try.
We owe it to our young
troops who served faithfully to end this war. We owe our young
soldiers a plan for peace so they can come back to the best America
has to offer – quiet living in the middle of “nowhere” rural
towns where they can safely raise their children to sing simple songs
about faith, hope, and love.
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