Remembering the day the sky fell

Radio voices deliver staccato bursts of news from New York City. Just moments ago, an aircraft crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers.

Years earlier, I stood on the viewing deck of one of those massive towers — a building large enough to house its own small city. Now, I was trying to imagine a plane crumpled against its wall of glass and steel. How could any pilot get so disoriented that he ended up flying through the maze of skyscrapers that define New York’s profile?

My questions were answered when I arrived at Teeland Middle School a few minutes later. While still in the parking lot, a colleague tells me there’s been a “terrorist attack.” Her words chill me with visions of Yemen, Beirut and other distant locales that bear little connection to my everyday life. Suddenly, my math lesson plans lose all relevance.

Dr. J., our principal, called an emergency meeting in the teachers’ lounge. He somberly tells the school’s staff that our country is under attack from a small band of Islamic extremists who have hijacked several jets and used them as missiles. The twin towers have burned and collapsed, the Pentagon is partially destroyed and a commandeered jet is missing somewhere over the Pennsylvania countryside.

No one speaks until a teacher’s aide breaks the stillness with her excited voice. “My husband told me that a bomb has gone off at the Air Force base in Anchorage.”

“And that,” Dr. J. speaks forcefully, “is exactly the kind of rumor that we must stop in its tracks. The children will come in full of disinformation and wild speculation.” Looking intently at each of us, he emphasizes, “Your job this morning is to do your job and teach. Remember that this tragedy provides a powerful opportunity to connect with your students. Let’s have a moment of silence and then get busy.”

We moved into this new middle school building a week ago. Prolonged storms in the Gulf of Alaska have delayed the cargo ships hauling our furniture and hi-tech equipment, so the school was operating without desks, chairs, computers, televisions and other tools of the trade.

Buses arrive and students spill out and flow into the building. I merge with the sea of humanity as I head to my classroom. At 7:15 a.m., most students have been up for less than an hour. On a typical day many would be groggy and not yet fully engaged with their peers. Today, however, people are energized and fully alert. Everyone seems to be talking at once; their frantic voices fill the hallways with rapid-fire exclamations.

Students enter my classroom in a chaos of shrill voices, telling wild tales and unbridled conjectures that eclipse even the nightmare that is today’s reality. The morning bell brings a sudden, sobering quiet to the class. Everyone rises for the Pledge of Allegiance and then sits down on the floor. My students are subdued as they look toward me, hoping that I’ll make better sense of their world. I pull a milk crate to the center of the room and sit. Then I repeat the facts that Dr. J. shared.

“This tragedy,” I continue, “offers us a challenge. We must do a better job in our country. And this change must begin here, in this place, with this math class.”

A hand shoots up. “I don’t see why we are responsible for other people’s screw-ups,” Jeremiah says indignantly.

“You are not responsible for today’s attacks,” I reply, “I am.”

The students collectively gasp at this admission. “I am at least partially responsible, as are all of our nation’s people from my generation. We have been too complacent and have not always done our best. We have, in essence, been asleep at the wheel while bad individuals plotted against us and carried out their plans.”

“So it’s not our fault?” Natalie tentatively tests the waters of our discussion.

I shake my head. “No, it’s not your fault, but it is your legacy. You will inherit this mess.”

“Thanks a lot,” Shane cuts in.

“I apologize for the failings of my generation,” I respond. “We don’t, however, have time to finger-point and get angry at those who have let you down. We must act.”

“What can we kids do?” Brandi asks. “We aren’t strong enough to fight off terrorists.”

“You’re right,” I say, “but you can work at being intelligent and well-educated enough to outsmart them.”

“I think I know where this is going,” Latisha’s high-pitched voice interjects. “And I think it will have something to do with school.”

“This has everything to do with school,” I agree, “and mathematics has as much to do with the solution to today’s tragedy as anything. Now sit up and please take out your math textbooks.”

Kids sit cross-legged on the floor and rummage through book bags.

“Open your books to the third chapter on number theory. Remember when we explored prime numbers and did the Sieve of Eratosthenes?” Heads nod. “Well, prime numbers are used in cryptology — in writing and breaking code. The terrorists may have communicated with each other in code. In the future we need math-savvy cryptologists who can intercept and break down terrorist messages.”

“So if I know about prime numbers then I can be a code-breaker?” Jeremiah asks.

“If you know a lot about prime numbers you may be able to work in that direction. Math builds on skills and concepts. Think back to the Sieve and all of the tools that you had to use to master the chart up to 100. It was hard work, but every one of you completed the task. Now imagine searching for prime numbers up to 1 million.” Heads shake in disbelief. “You can do it if you work hard in school.”

Shauna raises her hand, “Are there other ways that people can use math to fight terrorism?”

I nod. “Absolutely. We need experts in telecommunications, engineering, security, crime scene investigations and computer programming. Each of those occupations require people with strong math skills. With strong math skills we can develop better systems to protect our people.”

I tape a large section of butcher paper to the wall at the back of the room and empty a bucket of markers on the floor.

“So, solutions against future terrorist attacks may begin with all of us. In order to solve big problems, one must often begin with small steps. I want everyone to take a few minutes to silently brainstorm how you as individuals can do a better job in this class.”

No one moves for a few minutes, until Shane walks to the back and writes, “I’ll stay awake in class.” On the surface it doesn’t seem like much of a goal, but I am not disappointed. I know that is a challenge for him. Then a cascade of students pour forward, furiously scribbling their resolutions:

• I’ll be on time for class each day.

• I’ll do my homework every night even when I feel like playing video games.

• I’ll study harder for math quizzes and tests.

• I’ll ask questions in class even though it may be embarrassing.

• I won’t miss any school unless I am bleeding from my ears.

• I will try harder even if it hurts my head.

• I’ll bring my stuff to class every morning, including an extra pencil for Antoine.

• I’ll do extra-credit problems for the challenge, not the grade.

• I’ll come by at lunch for help when I am confused.

• I’ll help my classmates when they don’t understand stuff.

• I’ll do my own homework instead of copying from Jared.

• I’ll quit cheating on tests.

• I won’t let anyone down.

Out of time to discuss these resolutions, I thank the students for being attentive and write the night’s homework on the board. They record the assignment without any hint of complaint. As the students leave, I see a look of determination on every face.

In the empty classroom I have a rare moment of quiet before the next group of students. A wave of doubt temporarily sweeps over me. I wonder if my pep talk can make any difference in the “big picture” — or even in the smaller picture of my math class. Then I recall my own words: “One must begin with small steps.”

I pick up a marker and add my resolution to the list: “I won’t let you down, either.”

Joe Nolting taught in local schools for 24 years and was the 2006-07 Mat-Su Teacher of the Year.