"It's awful here. BUT I'M ALIVE," our older daughter Joanna finally wrote in response to one of my frantic e-mails. She had moved to New York City just six days before the attack. Phone calls, even cell phones, were useless as all the other worried mothers around the world tried to get through.
The entire morning I anxiously imagined her protected in large God-like hands. All the while, she slumbered in the arms of Morpheus, asleep 150 blocks away from the World Trade Center.
Maybe I had neglected that piece of her training: In case of national disaster, call your mother. But what precedent did I have? Who could have imagined this?
And a week later, as I listened to President Bush tell us about this new kind of war, to be fought on different kinds of battlefields, my imagination ran to the places where we might have to fight. I know he meant military actions, but what battles will we here at home fight? Where will I, a middle-aged, married, teacher and mother in Carson City, Nevada, be asked to fight?
I will fight to keep my awareness of world events and this war in its proper place, in balance with my real, everyday life. While I want to learn as much as I can about the situation and the sacrifices being made, I don't want to become so paralyzed by fear and worry that my real life can't go on.
I'll need to turn away from the TV now and then so that the images will not continue to flood my psyche, desensitizing - or re-sensitizing - me to the horror. People on every continent have endured horrific acts of terrorism. We can survive. Our lives, although forever changed, will go on. Must go on.
As citizens, I'm sure you'll agree that we will struggle to focus on what is really important. We have been jolted from our complacency and have learned that there are some things worth fighting for. Right now, that thing is to make our world safe again. What happened to us was a shameful act. I hope that our response will not make us ashamed but will prove us worthy of our place in the world.
My larger battle, however, will be to simply feel normal again. I'll go through the motions of whatever "normal" is, hoping that soon my feelings will catch up to my actions. I'll attend meetings, make appointments, plan birthday celebrations, and go shopping for the perfect shade of lipstick. I'll admire the fall colors. We'll take that raft trip through the Grand Canyon next summer.
However, the first big test of my trying to be normal will be to travel to the reading conference in Las Vegas this weekend.
"Not on a plane!" My good friend in California seemed incredulous.
"Yes, a plane."
"Can't you drive?"
"Drive eight hours each way for a two day conference? I don't think so. I'm not giving in to fear. I'm flying." We'll see how I brave this citizen-soldier feels tomorrow night as she boards the plane.
As a teacher, I will strive to keep focused on my goals and objectives as well as to use this teachable moment to explore geography, history, and tolerance. I will also work to counteract the violence and fear my students may have seen on television or the hatred they may have heard expressed. n addition, I must be vigilant and protect my young students from ignorant, misdirected anger and hatred. I'll do what I can to prevent that bit of collateral damage.
The battle with my emotions will be a small, very private struggle. I merely want to be able to say the Pledge of Allegiance and sing "The Star-Spangled Banner" without the tears and without the catch in my throat.
That California friend says she hasn't dared wear mascara since that awful day. "What's the use?" I imagine her with those black streaks running down her sweet, sad face. The vision makes me smile. I'll need to laugh again too, out loud, with my friends.
We will all need to prepare ourselves for our own private battles in this war. We'll all need to find ways to keep ourselves focused, grounded and sane. But how do we do that?
We can begin by doing what soldiers throughout history have done before going into battle: Count your blessings; remember you're not alone; gather your loved ones close; tell them you love them.
And remember to call your mother.
Lorie Smith Schaefer and her husband have lived in Carson City for over 20 years. Both daughters are alive and well and calling their mother a little more often these days. Lorie is a reading specialist at Seeliger School.
