The night of September 11, 2001, I was supposed to go straight from my day job to the New York City College of Technology on Jay Street, where I would start my first semester teaching English to new immigrants. I’d found the job from a guy I’d met at the poetry reading under the Brooklyn Bridge. He published my poem about the skyline swallowing the moon in his zine, and introduced me to his boss at CityTech. I started that job a week late, but worked there for four years. I taught a little bit of writing while serving as INS liaison, counselor, and surrogate brother for a group of 25 immigrants I saw for 25 classroom hours a week each semester. I was needed.
Just added to The List and the Story: My Aughts