Missile Crisis

I was 12 years old when at lunch time I just raced out of the school building (PS 63 in New York City), ran across a highway, over a busy avenue, rounded the corner, and breathlessly entered the lobby of my apartment building. I knew it was foolish at the time, but my overwhelming fear and anxiety just took over.  It was mid-October, 1962 and our country was engulfed in the Cuban Missile Crisis.  Our teachers had been drilling us for days on various survival techniques, mainly “duck and cover” and “hide under the desks”, because it was widely assumed that nuclear bombs were aimed at New York City as the first line of attack.  We all felt powerless.  To add to the sadness, my father recently had serious surgery and was home languishing in pain, and my mother spent her days fretting over his slow recovery and also the panic of what most believed would be imminent bombings.  On that particular day we had a drill in the hallway of our school where over a loud speaker the principal urged us to keep our backs to the wall as we all sat cross-legged on the cold, tile floor.  Probably seeing the terror on our faces, our teacher, Mrs. Rothman, spoke to us in a quiet, but firm voice:  “Shortly after we were married, my husband fought in World War II.  After it was over and he came home he didn’t talk about it much, but I knew it had been horrible for him and others.  He still had some shrapnel in his chest from a particularly dangerous mission which I knew caused him a great deal of pain.  But still, I would see him really enjoying a simple slice of pie or a brightly colored bird on our window sill in ways I didn’t see before.  Every day when he left for his job as a bus driver he would hug me and say what a beautiful day it was—even if it was raining.  One day I asked him why he was so…well, so appreciative of everything.  So many others were angry or distressed.  And he told me:  ‘After I was shot I figured out that things like this—like this terrible, terrible war—either make you better or worse when you come out of it.  I set myself on trying to come out of this a better person.  I decided that I was going to really enjoy life because this experience would teach me a valuable lesson.  So I was going to be better for it.’ “  As we sat there scared and  shivering I hung on her every word looking for some balm to fill my fearful heart.  She finished, “So, when this ordeal is done and we all go back to our regular lives, think about whether this will make you a better person or a worse one.  Decide that now inside of yourself because it will matter for your whole life.”  And as she finished, the bell rang for lunch.  Kids scampered to the cafeteria, but I bolted out the door and home to my parents.  I found my mother crying in the kitchen and my father on the couch listless and very pale.  “This will make us stronger,” I vowed out loud.  “We will get through this—all of it—and it will teach us how much we love each other and how strong we can really be.”  Of course they were shocked by this, but I had a very firm resolve.  Even though I loved being at school, I stayed home to help and to be with the two people I so dearly loved.  Several days later the missile crisis was over, my father’s health began to improve, and my mother’s panic began to abate.  And, indeed, we really were never again the same as before the crisis.
We were better.