"A Village Called New York"

Over the summer, I read David Oliver Relin's Three Cups of Tea. The book tells the story of a lower-middle class rock-climber who began to build a school for one small Pakistani village and ended up running a foundation starting nearly 80 schools across Pakistan and Afghanistan.

I was reading it when I worked in the city, taking the bus up I-95, dropping off at the Pentagon, and stopping at various places along 14th St. The day I came Mortenson's day of Sept. 11, 2001, I was coming up to the Pentagon bus bay. Mortenson was in a Pakistani village and his host woke him up to tell him, "A village called New York was bombed." I found myself tearing up and having trouble reading on.

Today, we discussed the events of 9-11 with the middle school classes. In the 7th grade, the social studies teacher covered most of it, and I surprised myself by wiping away tears. With a group of people who don't remember that period of time, in a place geographically far from DC which is home, I found myself shaking as I read the Wiki article on September 11th to the 6th and 8th grades. And they understood the importance... the same way I understand the importance of the Kennedy assassination.

How long does it take for our lives to become history? To me, it's life, current events, reality, not something to be taught, something whose importance must be impressed upon middle school students. It makes time seem different in my mind. I'm not sure if it makes life shorter, or fuller, or both.

Side Note: The 8th graders were more interested in the math to figure out my age based on where I was in school in 2001 than learning about 9-11. One secret is out of the bag.