Mariela Manoso's POV
I love my job. I can't believe I got a job working in this prestigious school. I mean, I just graduated this past May. I am excited and nervous to be teaching Chemistry. It is my passion, but my students are so smart. I'm afraid that some will be smarter than me. Everything about this school is overwhelming, from its sheer size, at ten stories, and the pool located on the first floor. I attended public school in Newark, and many of our schools were larger city schools, but my alma mater did not have the bells and whistles I find here. Thirteen years ago, to mark the 90th anniversary of this institution, a new school building was constructed. I have been in many schools, from the ones I attended growing up, to the schools where I completed my student teaching and observations, but never had I been in a school that was outfitted with both elevators and escalators, the latter which was for student use. Escalators in a school. Definitely, something I wouldn't see in Newark.
Working in downtown Manhattan, on the edge of Tribeca and Battery Park, has its perks. It's a safe place, mass transit is readily available, but the food is expensive. I've been bringing in breakfast and lunch every day. While I am a full-time teacher, the Department of Education doesn't pay as much as I hoped for. Then again, they do pay better than some of the other schools I interviewed at.
I'm in my office, well, I should say the office of the Chemistry department. Shoved into one small room are nine desks. Even though I'm the new girl, I scored and got a desk in front of one of the two windows in the room. I get to look out at the building across the street. It is the fourth day of school, and I'm finally ready to teach my first lesson. Granted, it will be an introductory lesson on measurement and scientific notation, but it is a valuable lesson. My students are much brighter than I anticipated.
I glance up from the legal pad I'm writing on to see smoke coming from a building. I'm not quite sure what building it is because I can't seem to look beyond the smoke. I must have made a noise, because one of my colleagues, Sasha, glances out the window and says, "oh my goodness! What is going on?"
We quickly realize that one of the two Twin Towers is on fire. We aren't sure what caused the fire, but we are looking for a radio that we can put on to find out what is happening. We manage to turn on John's radio, tuning it into one of the all-news stations, hearing that a plane crashed into the Tower. How the hell did that happen? As we are listening to the news and looking out the window, we see emergency vehicle after emergency vehicle come flying down the West Side Highway, or West Street, as it is known downtown. I guess it's a good thing that 1PP is on the east end of Chambers Street. We hear the beep indicating that a PA announcement is about to be made.
"Attention staff and students. Please report to your third period homeroom class immediately. Teachers take attendance. If a student leaves the room, please make sure they sign out. There is a chance that we might have to evacuate at some point. Attendance is critical. We need to have an accurate record of who made it to the building today."
I quickly grab my purse, leaving my sneakers on and head to my room, room 917. Once my students arrive, I start taking attendance. Fortunately, all my students are present and accounted for. I guess my students are all on a 1-9 schedule instead of a 2-10. We have ten periods here, and students either attend from the first period until the ninth period or from the second period until the tenth period. Some, because of schedule conflicts, are in school for all ten periods. From what we heard on the radio, the subway was stopping uptown, and not taking anyone into lower Manhattan. With students traveling to the school from all five boroughs, we needed to have an accurate roll. The kids were curious about what was happening, and I wasn't sure if I should turn the TV on. We were on the Northside of the building, not facing the carnage to our south. I stepped into the hallway to ask one of my colleagues what I should do.
"Mariela, you might as well put it on. They hear the sirens, see the smoke, they know something big is happening. Keeping them informed of the potential danger will only help to ensure that they stay safe if we need to evacuate, which I think is going to happen sooner rather than later." Dorothy said.
"Okay. I'll put it on."
"I'm heading down to Mr. Simmon's office. We are going to discuss what we are going to do. Just be prepared to leave at a moment's notice. If we do evacuate, the teachers in odd rooms will stay behind to sweep the floor before leaving. We need to make sure all students get out of the building."
"Alright, Dorothy, anything you need."
I return to my classroom, turning on the television. Channel 2 is broadcasting, showing the scene from a few blocks away. Everything seems so surreal, so fake. I almost feel as though I'm going to wake up from a bad dream soon. I am watching what is happening, and I'm trying to keep it together. I'm trying to stay calm. I can't allow myself to breakdown and cry in front of these sophomores. They are still babies. Finally, we get the evacuation order, after the emergency personnel arrives here, wanting to use the school as a triage/command center. We tell our kids what is happening, instructing them to walk uptown. Some want to try to walk towards Brooklyn to cross over the bridge, but we don't feel that it is a safe place right now. We instruct them to head uptown, then to go to the east side near 14th Street. We want them to get as far away from the school as possible as quickly as possible.
While this school is for the top academic students in the city, we are a D75 site, as well. D75 deals with those students who have severe disabilities that prevent them from attending a regular school. Some of them have physical limitations that require them to be in a building with elevators, air conditioning, and other amenities. Some are severely autistic or have another learning disability that requires them to have a specialized program of study, often stressing life-skills as opposed to academics. With this building having so many handicap accessible features, it was a prime school to be a D75 site, housing a school within a school where several students have cerebral palsy and require walkers or wheelchairs to get around. Unfortunately, due to the events a few blocks away, the fire department is unable to evacuate them. The elevators can't be used, so these students are trapped on the upper floors, at least until the other students saw them. Suddenly, I'm observing our students carrying these students down seven, eight, nine flights of stairs while carrying their book bags, walkers, and other paraphernalia. I'm touched by the humanity and maturity shown by these teenagers.
Once we make it outside, the reality of the situation hits us all. We see hundreds, if not thousands of people leading an exodus out of lower Manhattan. People are trying to call home on cell phones, people trying to find friends or family members. Some are pausing here and there to feel the emotions of the morning, to cry and grieve for our innocence lost. I try to block my feelings, knowing that it won't do me any good to get worked up. I need to find a way home; I need to get to my Mama. Yes, I'm a 23 year-old-woman who wants her mama. I think anyone would want their mother today.
I keep walking uptown when I hear a rumble. I glance behind me, as do most of the people around me to see what was the North Tower of the World Trade Center collapsing. We start to run, knowing that we need to get as far away as possible. I see the bar owner, holding his door open, ushering people inside. I run in, moving as far into the interior of the restaurant as I can. I don't know what the effect of the collapse will be, but I know I need to get out of the street. The bar quickly fills to standing room only. The door gets closed only when no more people can fit inside. The sound is deafening. After what seems like an eternity, we open the door to see the street and everything in it covered in gray ash. It looks like gray snow fell on the city. I decide that I need to keep moving uptown. I'm not sure if mass transit is working, but I need to get to Jersey. Maybe I can find a ferry somewhere to get me to Jersey.
I pull out my scarf, the one my mother gave me as a graduation gift. It's silk, and absolutely beautiful. However, I know I shouldn't be breathing in the air directly. I tie it, so it's covering my nose and mouth. I then dig into my bags, surprised when I find lab goggles in there. Now I remember. Lois, the lab specialist, was showing me how to do the lab for class yesterday afternoon. I had the googles in my hand when I noticed the time. I needed to leave if I planned on getting my train. I tossed them into my bag and ran out of the building. I made it to the station with about thirty seconds to spare. Now, though, they will come in handy to protect my eyes from the acrid air, and who know what particles that are floating around.
I continue to move further uptown, eventually hitting a pier where boats are receiving passengers. I confirm that the ferry is heading to Jersey and climb aboard. Once I get on the other side of the river, I'll worry about how I'll get home to Newark. I don't care if they drop me off in Jersey City. I can always call Papi from there. I get on the boat, sitting down for the first time in a long time. Once the ferry is filled to capacity, we take off. As we round Lower Manhattan, I can't help the tears from falling as I see the smoking remains of the iconic NYC landmark. I think about all the lives that were lost today and realize that we are entering a time of war. I hope that Carlos and Stephanie don't become casualties of that war. I mean, they are in West Point and will be serving our country. I know they didn't sign up to be wartime combatants. I hope they're prepared. Dios, please watch over them and keep them safe.
A/N: Thank you so much for your support. I appreciate it. Mariela's POV is based on conversations I had with colleagues working downtown on that tragic day. The students, who were ages 14-18, took it upon themselves to help each other, showing a maturity well beyond their age. They grew up in a matter of hours.
I will resume my Monday/Friday posting schedule. Though I would love to post more frequently, I won't do so until Part III is completed. Please continue to read and review, if you so choose. Thank you to Susan, who read and edited 105 pages in about a week. You rock, Babe. :-)