Second Period: Beginning Guitar

My senior year in high school was filled with music classes. I only needed an art and English class to fulfill my graduation requirements, but all students were required to stay in the school for all eight periods. So, I filled my schedule with music classes. Beginning guitar, beginning orchestra, and beginning chorus were my three music classes of the day. Since I had been a musician in some capacity since the age of 7, and knew many of the music teachers because of my involvement in the school’s marching band, music classes seemed to be the most logical step.

My first period class was honors English on the second floor of the A building. As I walked down the stairs, I probably bumped into my friend Barbara and began talking to her about, well, probably nothing. I rushed to my locker to put away my English books. After second period guitar came division, and after division was my lunch period. Since we had open campus for juniors and seniors, I always met my friends at the front door and then rushed out so we could be first in line at whatever greasy spoon we chose for that day.

I passed Mr. Burgess office and gave him a quick hug as I did everyday.

“Staying out of trouble?”

“I’m trying Mr. Burgess, but you know these folks be gunnin for me!”

Same exchange everyday.

Someone stopped me in the hall to give me the latest gossip, which usually included a brief blurb about what fast-tailed freshman had most recently pushed up on my boyfriend. A quick shake of the head and roll of the eyes later, and I was back on my mission to the B Building orchestra room where beginning guitar was held.

Barely making it in the allotted 4 minutes, I’d sit in my seat on the front row, throw my purse down, and then head to the locker where my guitar was. Grabbed it, plopped back down on the seat, and on the purse that I always forgot was on the seat, unlatched the guitar and brought it out of the case.

And like clockwork, Janae, the class loudmouth, came into the class being, you guessed it, LOUD.

“Girl, somebody can’t fly a *expletive* plane. That’s a damn shame.”

I didn’t pay attention to her. I never did.

“Girl, what are you talking about, and why are you so loud doing it?” My guitar teacher, Mr. Henry, asked Janae.

“I’m talkin bout how a plane hit a building in New York City. That’s what the expletive I’m talkin bout.”
“Stop cussin.”

“Sorry.”

“I been trying to get a phone call into NYC all this morning,” Mr. Henry said. “That must be why I can’t get a call through.”

I turned around to my friend Monique who sat right behind me. She was picking at her long nails and wondering how badly she was going to get tongue lashed from Mr. Henry today. Both of us wore long acrylic, and heavily decorated, nails during high school, and as you can imagine, this didn’t make for the most efficient acoustic guitar playing. But we both felt like beauty was not to be sacrificed for 45 minutes a day, 5 days a week.

“You hear about that,” I asked.

“Girl, no. You KNOW she lyin,” Monique responded with a laugh. “She always comin up in here telling some crazy story bout what she done heard. Don’t forget she said she saw Tupac at the SuperMall yesterday!”

We both laughed.

Class began.

Five minutes into class, Ms. Myles, the orchestra teacher, came into the room and walked over to Mr. Henry. Ms. Myles, who wore a permanent smile, had a furrowed brow and worried look. I liked, no loved, Ms. Myles. After one of my school newspaper articles had thrown the school into a hot debate on whether or not Cleopatra was black, she had invited me to her home where her husband, and Egyptologist, explained the true lineage of the Queen. So, seeing her upset did not make me happy.

She whispered something in his ear. His brow became furrowed. He looked at her and asked her to repeat it. She whispered it again. He followed her into the band office without a single, “don’t get loud in here, and use this time to practice!”

Since I had been drum major the previous year, I was usually given free access to the band office which is where three of the music teachers had their offices. I sat my guitar in the case and followed Mr. Henry and Ms. Myles into the office. Mr. Hines, the third band teacher spotted me, and quickly said, “Go back to class.”

“But I just wanted to….,”

“Go back!”

Mr. Hines never yelled.

I walked back into the orchestra room with all eyes on me. For all intensive purposes, I had been the spy. I walked over to Janae and asked her to repeat what she had said earlier.

“Giiiiiirl, a plane hit one of those tall buildings in New York. Just went right into that *expletive.”

I sat back down. Mr. Henry came back into the room. He said nothing, but worry was written all over his face. By the time the 45 minute class period was over, most had forgotten Janae’s claim or Mr. Henry’s worried look. As soon as the bell sounded, everyone ran out of the room and made a quick dash for their division room. My division room just so happened to be the orchestra room, so I stayed seated.

As Mr. Henry was gathering his things, I asked him what was wrong.

“Go into the band office and look at the TV,” was his only reply.

I went into the band office and watched. At first, I couldn’t make out what I was watching. I looked at the bottom banner across the screen and read and re-read it.

“Two airplanes hit both towers of the World Trade Center.”

What?

Jerome, a boy who played trombone in the marching band was sitting down on the couch watching too.

“Dang, somebody can’t fly a plane worth a damn!”

“Fool,” Cassandra said. “Shut up! They did it on purpose, duh!”

It was the first time that thought had crossed my mind. I spun around in horror and faced her.

“Are you sure?”

“Shannon, what are the odds of two different planes hitting two different buildings on the same day?”

My heart dropped.

“Awwwww damn,” Jerome yelled looking at the television in horror.

I turned around to see the Pentagon with a huge hole in one side.

The band office erupted in, “I’m takin my black behind home,” and “We under straight up attack y’all,” “awww ish, they gon get us now!”

I ran to the phone and dialed my mother’s school.

“Proctor APC,” answered the clerk.

“Hi Daisy, this is Shannon, Ms. Carter’s daughter,” I said in the calmest tone that I could muster. “Can you get my mom?”

“Well, she’s in class right now sweetie.”

“I know, but I really need to talk to her.”

“Can I give her a message?”

“Can you tell her to pick me up today?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Have you been watching the news?”

“No, should I be?”

“We’re under attack.”

The rest of the day was a blur to me. The halls were all either unusually quiet or unusually loud. Many people who left for their lunch periods didn’t come back. Instead the boarded the Orange Line El and went home.

The students at Curie High School in Chicago had a real reason to be afraid. The next stop down from us on the Orange Line was Midway Airport.

I refused to board the El.

“Ain’t no damn way I’m getting on that El! Not today,” I told my friend Shannon (yeah, her name was Shannon too).

Mr. Hines walked into my Beginning Orchestra class and gave us one of his, "real talks."

"See, you can't go around treating people like trash forever. They're gonna come back on you one day. See, the U.S. government has been treating people like the dirt under their feet for years, and now it's coming back on all of us. We all gotta pay now for what they've done. Shoot, everyone in this class is Black or Mexican. You know we didn't do nothing to these folks! But all of us gotta pay now, just because we live here. Just because we're Americans too."

Samantha raised her hand.

"Why all of us?"

I don't remember his answer, but I know it couldn't have been sufficient because I'm still asking the same question.

My mother picked me up after school and explained to me all she knew. We went home and watched the news all evening and into the night. Again and again, I watched the planes hit the WTC. I watched the building crumble. I watched people jump out of windows. I watched horrified and dirt-blackened faces yell and scream. I saw a crashed plane laying in a field. I saw a smoldering Pentagon. When I finally could take no more, I crawled out of my mother’s bed and said good night.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to her.

“I love you baby.”

“I love you too mommy.”

That was five years ago today.