Four months after returning to New York, it was time for me to grow up. I needed to finish high school and get my life in order. I couldn’t be a high school dropout. What reason would I have for ending up as a stock boy at Duane Reade or at the local Key Food? Why lose out on all the opportunities that would be become available to me with an education in my back pocket? Those were just some of the questions I pondered in the months following my departure from Florida to the day I found myself being introduced to the black, baldheaded representative of an unorthodox school catering to older individuals who attended classes during the day and at night, depending on their knowledge and comprehension of the English language.
Sure, I had fun not having to do anything for myself. No responsibilities or expectations. But it would be such a mistake to fit into the stereotype, which is that of a black boy who does nothing for anyone, especially not himself. A black boy who makes money by doing illegal things while spending all their days and all their nights on the stoop of their house, talking nonsense at those who passed them by and got themselves involved in activities that would result in years spent behind black bars wearing a blue or orange jumpsuit. But that wasn’t going to be me. It couldn’t. I wouldn’t let it.
As soon as my mother and I arrived at the High School Placement Center in Manhattan, it seemed like things weren’t going to get any better for me. I would just follow the same pattern as before. The staff seemed overwhelmed, incompetent and useless all at the same time. That was until one of the women we were talking with finally showed some semblance of original thought and told us about a school that was for students my age. Overaged students who had accomplished a certain number of credits, but didn’t fit into the realm of normalcy that a regular day program offered throughout the five boroughs. Telling us to wait one moment, she left us in the lobby. I was ready to go and even tried to press my mother to let us leave before the lady returned. Thankfully, my mother wasn’t having it. We waited and we waited. Finally, he came. His name was Samuel Hussey. He was the assistant principal of Manhattan Comprehensive Night and Day High School. Located in the Gramercy Park section of Manhattan, the school was just over 10 years old and catered to older students from all parts of the world, including students from the city who were missing their credits and were on the verge of aging out. Not realizing I fit that criteria, I didn’t know what to think about the place. After providing us with more information about the school, Mr. Hussey left us with his business card and information on when they were doing registration. We thanked him for his time and for all that he said, and we said our goodbyes. While walking to the train station to head back home, my mother and I spoke about it. We were skeptical. “What high school has classes at night?” we thought. We rationalized it was a good stepping stone toward college in that it prepares one for attending classes at night. That couldn’t be such a bad thing. So why not? Taking a chance, we showed up on registration day, said our hellos to Mr. Hussey once more, and were introduced to all the other staff members who were there. We even got a tour of the building before we were seated in a classroom and provided with a folder filled with documents we had to fill out. Before we knew it, I was on my way to becoming a student of Manhattan Comp, the school’s more acceptable abbreviated name. But, I still had a few days of freedom left. I’d make it worth my while. Knowing me all that meant was sleeping in as much as I could and watching as much mindless TV as the human brain could take in. I was still just 17, and I didn’t miraculously build a network of friends, nor did I have a fake I.D. that would get me into the parties and sticky situations. I might have missed out on a lot of the fun that my peers were undertaking because I spent most of my time indoors, but I didn’t mind. I was my own fun.
With school back in session, and now attending at night, I’d found some happiness in my life. There was finally some structure in what I previously felt was an unstructured journey. Leaving my house by 4 and getting home by midnight, an odd experience but manageable. The biggest challenge was learning how to travel by train and maneuvering about when that wasn’t an option. Within a week, I started building a list of acquaintances, some of whom lived in nearby Alphabet City, the more common name for Avenues A through D of Manhattan’s East Village. Walking some of them home one night, instead of taking my usual route via the L to Brooklyn, I discovered that Avenue A would later turn into Essex St., which brought me straight to my beloved J train. As we separated, I walked more than a dozen blocks down until I approached the station I was looking for. Spotting the entrance, I made a beeline for it. I couldn’t wait to go home. Tired as I was, I approached the station entranceway, but stopped. I couldn’t go down the stairs. Not yet. Something told me to look up, and what I saw was the night sky lit up by the moon shining itself on the twin beauties down the line. The symmetric iconic buildings standing tall, commanding the world they’ve owned for more than thirty years. No longer the tallest in the world, they were still the most well-known. I couldn’t help but stare. I was a peace. The world was a at peace. I saw the clouds mobbing about, blocking the moon from time to time. Such a beautiful sight and one that would remain with me always.
Standing there for what felt like hours, I finally descended. I paid my fare, walked the loops and was on the platform awaiting my train. Before I found myself in my desired spot, I saw a group of dancers moving to the beats. One stood out. Black, long braided hair. Wearing an A-shirt, I could have sworn it was one of Britney Spears’ backup dancers. I never knew the guy’s name and I didn’t know how to look it up, but he seemed very familiar to me. It wasn’t him though, he was probably with Britney. She was still on tour after all. Saying nothing to him, the train arrived and I went about my night. Once I was home, said my hellos to my mother and my sisters, I got a quick snack and went to my room, watched some TV and went to bed. It was Monday, September 10, 2001. The night before the worst attack on U.S. soil was about to occur. The night before the towers would become no more. The night before the calmness I felt as I journeyed home would be the final time of peace the city would feel for several days, several weeks, several months and even years to come. Yes, that feeling was a warning. I’d always felt I had a mystery sixth sense and it wouldn’t fail me then. I wish it had.
It’s 9:00 a.m. the next morning. My mother had woken me up ranting about something happening in the city. The TV was on, tuned to the news. ABC News’ “Good Morning America.” A plane had just crashed into one of the towers. They didn’t know that at the time, but my mother said it was true. She felt it. She even felt it was an act of terror. Within minutes, the world would also know it to be true. A second plane crashed into the second tower. Our world was now at war. As we watched the two burning towers with thousands of people running from the scene, my mother reminded me that my sister, Jaime, was nearby. She’d gone to run an errand. And my aunt Barbara worked for the federal reserve. Two people I cared about were possibly in danger and I wouldn’t be able to find out how they were. The lines were down. No dial tone. Millions of people trying to reach loved ones left the city with jammed lines and no source of communication outside of what was being shown on TV. Whatever the intent was behind the act, the city was at the terrorist’s mercy. Bridges were closed. Train service was halted. Airplanes were grounded. No one in the city, no one out of the city. We were under siege. It was anarchy at its finest. What couldn’t be accomplished nearly a decade prior with a car bomb, was more than made up for by two large missiles carrying hundreds of passengers who woke up that morning expecting to see their loved ones on the other side of the world. Not realizing, the other side would become several hundred miles south from their departure location, veered off course to the city that never slept, a city that would never sleep after that horrific morning.
School now canceled, my mother and I watched everything unfold on TV. Another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. Yet another plane, suspected to be headed for Washington, D.C. as well, had crashed in open field in Pennsylvania. Four planes. More than a thousand souls lost. Three buildings with massive holes in their structure, leaving them with open wounds. Burning steal taking the place of broken red vessels, rings of fire bringing smoky skies. A far cry from just twelve hours earlier. Collapse. One of the towers came down. News reporters running for their lives as bodies take place of motor vehicles heading in all directions, except the one where rubble was coming down. I still didn’t know the whereabouts of my sister and my aunt. I was worried. What could possibly be running through their minds? If I were in their shoes, I’d be scared for my life. Hoping that someone was watching over me and protecting me. Making sure that no matter what happened that I’d be able to come home to the comfort of my bed, the ability to rest my head on my pillow and have peaceful dreams. Any way to not face the reality of what happened. The reality of what tomorrow would bring. The reality that today happened and that I didn’t survive it. Reality. Was any of it even real?
It had been several hours since the attacks. Both towers were gone. My sister was fine but still not home. She couldn’t get close until the city allowed it. It felt like we were all living under Marshall law where you were told to stay indoors and the only way to keep yourself abreast to what was happening around you was to stay glued to your television set which was filled with reports of the attacks on nearly every channel, including channels that didn’t normally show the news. Late in the evening tower 7 was brought down, bringing renewed stress onto the city as they diligently searched for the missing people buried under the rubble. The hope for survivors deteriorating as minutes turned into hours and hours into days. We were living in a different world. We’d have to adjust. We’d have to overcome.
Nearly a week after the attacks in New York, city schools were back in session. Teachers and staff tasked with getting students together, opening a line of communication to help bring clarity and normalcy back into the picture. How they could piece together two even words, much less a session on safety, security and doubt, I’ll never know, but I admired them for bringing a calmness among us. It was something we hadn’t felt since everything went down.
Going to school day after day felt different than when it first began thanks to the somber faces you’d see on the trains and buses as you traveled to and from. People were angry. They wanted answers. They wanted to know where their loved ones were, the many who still went unfound. I was lucky in that I didn’t lose anyone close to me in the attacks. Not everyone was. One of the teachers, Ms. Shi, had lost her husband. Despite getting up every day to report to work you could see the sadness on her face. You could see her in tears from time to time. For me, she represented the reality of what happened. I may not have known her personally, nor did I really interact with her outside of a hi and bye here and there, I felt for her.
As the year went on I got involved with several activities and events thanks to the nonprofit organization located in the basement of our school building, the Student Life Center. Thanks to the SLC, during my first summer at MCNDHS I got a chance to intern at Brooklyn Community Access Television, which allowed Brooklynites the opportunity to create their own original programs and display their thoughts and ideas. Considering my constant TV watching, working at BCAT was perfect for me. If only things were easy when I first got there. When I arrived for an interview with the programmers, I learned that the coordinator at the SLC hadn’t informed them that I was a high school student. BCAT had a not so great experience with people that age before and only wanted college interns. Thankfully not only did I dress professionally enough by wearing a full suit for the interview but I was able to turn things around from what I had to say which helped me land the gig, even if it meant that I had to work harder than most to prove that you can’t judge a book by its cover, or in this case, not every experience would be the same. That summer was also when I began getting heavily involved with a message board that I had discovered a few months prior; it was called Soap Opera Network, what is now an online magazine celebrating the world of soaps past, present and future. At the time, Soap Opera Network was available on what were called ezBoard’s. I was a moderator and managed many of the content that got posted.
Following my experience during the summer at BCAT, and not realizing I had impressed one of the MNCHDS administrators with my wearing a full suit during the heated summer days for my job at BCAT, I was informed that I was asked to work for the main office of the school by Mr. Reed, the senior assistant principal in charge of school safety, the arts and special education. He was impressed with how I dressed despite the humidity we went through and wanted a young, colorful looking student to represent the best that the school could offer when it came to answering telephones and being one of the first faces one saw when they entered the main offices of our school. Mr. Reed would become a father figure for me, or even a grandfather, considering I never had any I could remember. He made sure that I adjusted well into the office by introducing me to my new colleagues, Luz, Theresa, Larry, Alex and Charles. I began working at the school on September 24, 2001 as a student aide. In the years following my graduation from MCNDHS and my eventual promotion to school aide, I remain an employee at the school, working as a secretary. I’ve worked in the main office, the attendance office, the English/ESL department and currently the guidance department. With more than 15 years of employment experience, MCNDHS has become a permanent home away from home for me. A place I can go to when I’m not in the greatest of moods, or a place to escape just to refresh my brain with knowledge on new things.