We were in the mud
of testing.
State Testing.
The down and dirty that ELA teachers
lived and dreaded
in the first few weeks of school,
after showing tips, sharing tricks,
drafting, drawing,
hoping, and praying
our sophomores could
engage and remember—
and score high enough
to graduate.
Their desks were spread apart,
facing forward.
I hadn’t learned yet to turn everyone
toward the outside wall,
so they wouldn’t be distracted.
Distractions were to be avoided.
Distractions were to be noted
and submitted
to the State.
They could invalidate a test–
for the distractor
or the entire class–
depending on their severity.
I paced and I paused
watching the #2 pencils and
brains at work.
Would they remember to
read the prompt first?
Would they remember to
plan their claim
and then support it?
Would they remember to
use evidence?
And conclude?
The students’ eyes
followed the text;
they streaked passages with yellow.
They scribbled on
scratch paper
and flipped the pages in
their flimsy test booklets.
I inhaled deeply
and studied
the clock above the doorframe:
thirty-three more minutes
until their time would be up.
The door inched open.
A colleague
slipped in and tiptoed
toward me.
It was too early to
spell me.
The first test
had just begun. What
was going on?
She sidled up to me
and turned her
back to the
class. Now
planning, outlining,
the writers ignored her.
“We’re under attack,”
she mouthed.
My head rattled.
“Don’t let the kids know.”
“What?” I
whispered.
“The Twin Towers—
in New York City— have been
attacked. An airplane
flew into them.”
I turned my shoulders, hiding my
huge eyes from the
test-takers.
“We just wanted you to know.”
“Uh … okay.”
“But don’t tell the kids. A
distraction
could invalidate
the test.”
I leaned closer. Did I hear
that right?
“We’ll tell them before lunch.”
My eyes narrowed as she
stole out.
I moved toward the window.
The sky was a perfect
wash of cerulean above
the waving grass. Across the field,
trees gently swayed along the fencerow.
Surely we were too far away to
be in danger.
Surely.
But what if we weren’t?
Would we hear the airplanes first?
Could we see them before they
dropped a payload?
I racked my brain:
what was the protocol
for being under attack?
Was that covered in
the school safety handbook?
I tugged the metal chain
to slide closed the tall gray blinds.
They fluttered before they settled,
tall and straight,
to shut out
the peaceful distraction.
And I thought a prayer
for the victims,
for their families, and
for my students …
who had thirty-two more
minutes of innocence.
