By Emily Brill '02

On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, Deerfield Academy was still largely a community of strangers. The hundreds of new students waking up that morning had arrived on campus just three days before. There were new teachers too, and most of the corridors still had cartons, trunks, and furniture waiting to be unpacked. Our year together had barely even started.

The only things we had in common were our anxieties: athletic try-outs, college essays, papers, tests, club meetings, phone calls to return, friendships, and so much more. These were the important things.

But by the end of second period that morning, people were running into their dorms, not out of them. Something was clearly not right All across campus, students and teachers headed for common rooms to tune into what was going on. Those of us who weren't gathering in common rooms were in our own rooms, growing more and more hysterical because we had no idea as to the whereabouts of our loved ones in Manhattan and Washington, D.C. Phone calls to Manhattan and Washington simply weren't going through.

Students and teachers looked out for each other that morning. We held hands, trembling as we tried to console those around us who were fearing the worst. And every couple of moments, we would gaze at the television in utter disbelief at the evil evolving before our eyes.

We watched as the World Trade Center disappeared into a plume of ashes, debris, and tears. We watched as flames engulfed the Pentagon. All of this as we waited for news of loved ones, friends, and fellow citizens of a world that, an hour ago, made a whole lot more sense.

At 10:40, the weekly all-school meeting came and went faster than ever before. There were no presentations, no announcements, no skits or speeches to be made. Mr. Widmer's words were sincere, but there was little he could do to alleviate the pain. "We will reconvene at lunch," he announced. "I know there are a lot of people here who need to make phone calls. . ." he said. Before the meeting let out, Ms. Hannay asked if Reverend McKelvey could lead us in a prayer. We were Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Methodists, and more, but, on that morning, we all bowed our heads. All of us were praying for the same thing. Classes that afternoon were optional, but not surprisingly, classes in the English, philosophy, and history departments did not exactly end up lacking in attendance.

We went because we wanted answers. We went because we wanted solutions. In Mr. Heise's Modern Times class, which met last period that day, most of the words that were spoken came out in the form of questions. Nobody had answers, just fears. An eerie silence kept sweeping over us, the only exception being the strangely reassuring sound of a carpenter hammering away in the distance. Between the resounding rhythm of a hammer and the beautiful sunlight that poured through the valley, it was almost too easy to forget.

That evening, as darkness settled over Deerfield, there were fewer strangers among us. It was the most unfortunate of circumstances, but everyone in the community had been brought together. And unlike a day like Heritage Day, or Green Key orientation day, or even Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, in which that feeling of togetherness always feels so imposed, this was a day when, for once, that feeling was real.

The windows through which we see the world from the safety of our Deerfield classrooms now present us with a world that is indisputably different. But Deerfield is as it has always been: a place in which we are all, at some level, each other's teachers.