Tuesday, September 25, 2001

Dear Teachers,

As I'm writing this, I'm sitting in my new office in my new apartment in Brooklyn, New York.  My view is one I've always wanted-the New York City skyline.  We all know how that skyline changed on September 11, 2001.  I walk up here now and am reminded every day of just how important it is to work with children.  I am reminded, too, of the wretched power of evil and hate that visited each one of us, and continues to do so.  It is a tall order to not be afraid right now.  You'll read this letter in December; I'm writing it in September.  Perhaps my thoughts will change a bit over the next months.  Perhaps they will not.

I want to thank you for being in your classrooms on the day that changed America.  I've thought often of what was required of you that day.  You had to deal with the tragedy personally; you were the person the children looked up to.  I well remember when I was twelve and President Kennedy was shot.  I was in math class.  My math teacher came into the room crying and told us the news.  She was pregnant and she held her stomach like she was trying to shield her unborn baby from the pain.  She stood before us and wept.  I remember the funeral procession in Washington, the pictures, the loss, but a huge part of that tragedy for me has always been defined by Mrs. Brown's courage to cry and not leave the room.  I remember another teacher storming through the halls--furious, sad.  Both responses were valid, real, and necessary.  The commitment to walk into a classroom each day and teach children whatever comes, whatever madness the world throws at you, is an act of supreme love and courage.  It is impossible to be a teacher and a coward.  

I do believe each one of you was there with your gifts and your personalities for such a time as this.  I believe you were placed right on the battle line to hold back the full intent of that evil from spreading.  I believe that now you are fighting with renewed passion against hate.  I know you're tired.  I know you want to shield each and every student from malevolence and the horror of war.  I also know that there are so many ways in which you have showed your students that this monstrosity won't be the final word.  "Mankind has been diminished," said the president of the Philippines.  Yes, she's right.  But not forever. 

It's easy to see a sight like we did in New York City when the planes hit, the twin towers went up in flames, the buildings impossibly collapsed, and think that the bad guys are in charge.  They are not.  We have weapons to fight with.  Hope.  Love.  Peace.  Justice.  Wisdom.  Unity.  Perseverance.  Sacrifice.  Those are the weapons you handle every day in your classrooms, whether the children are learning them at home or not.  They are learning them from you.  I wasn't always the greatest student, but I learned mightily from my teachers.  At this writing, my husband knows eight people who lost their lives in this tragedy.  Evan had been invited to that financial technology breakfast at Windows on the World.  He did not attend because we were moving from Connecticut to New York City.  It brushed us that close.  I thank God every day I still have him.

Here in New York a sadness and mourning have covered people like a shroud.  There is a spirit of heaviness.  Candles burn in windows and on porches of our new neighborhood, photos of those who died hang in windows, on gates, at bus stops, at stores, restaurants.  In the first ten days, the smell of smoke here was still strong.  Resolve is strong too.  How do we make sense of madness?  We don't.  We give ourselves to being part of the solution.  We write and teach and remember how fast things can change.  There's an urgency now to overcome.  I agree with that.     

I just returned from a long car trip back and forth to Chicago where my husband and I drove our 19 year old daughter and her friend to the University of Chicago.  We were planning to fly.  Chose not to.  We pulled onto the FDR Drive and saw the long line of fire trucks and ambulances waiting to come into Ground Zero to help.  It was a remarkable experience driving across the country seeing the flags flying from trucks, cars and vans, flags flapping from oil refineries, from barns in Western Pennsylvania, neon lights blinking GOD BLESS AMERICA.  We ate dinner in Cleveland.  When people found out we were from New York City, they came up to the table to tell us they were glad we were alive.  We talked about teachers in the classroom over that long car trip.  Jean and Kate offered an important insight. 

A teacher is as important to a classroom as a mayor is to a city.  While the adults looked to the President, the mayor, the governor to make sense of this tragedy, children looked to their teachers. 

You were the president on September 11th, the mayor, the governor.  

You were there.  They will remember you for the rest of their lives. 

We're going to make it.  It won't be perfect.  It won't be easy.  The landscape has changed.  But hope is a strange thing.  It doesn't come at times of ease, doesn't appear when all is going well.  It comes at times of profound sadness, of national tragedy.  It just shows up-this audacious, compelling, belligerent hope-it digs in its heels and refuses to leave.  We think surely it must go eventually.  The moment is too fierce for it to stay.  But it sits with us, walks with us, watches us when we sleep, covers us like a blanket in our homes, in our classrooms.   The gift of hope burrows deep.  It is the antidote to fear and evil.

Hope is one of God's most precious gifts.  In times like this we learn how strong hope really is and how strong we can be because of it.

Thank you, friends, for being there.

God bless you all.

With admiration and affection,

Joan Bauer