My experience as a New York resident.
Date Submitted: 6/2/2016
I was at school in my third grade class, no longer than 20 minutes outside Manhattan. School started as planned, nothing significantly odd occurred in the moments before the attack. I do remember the classroom being much darker than usual as my teacher for the first time decided to pull down the blinds.
Not long after class begun and presumably after the 2nd plane hit, our classroom wall mounted telephone began to ring at the front of the room. It was the only time I ever heard the class-phone ring and my teacher's reaction hinted it was her first time as well. My teacher went over, picked it up, and gave a friendly "Helllllloooooooo, this is Mrs. R's 3rd grade classroom." There were several seconds of silence on her part and as the person who made the call proceeded to speak my teacher began letting out an unsettling, "What? What? What do you mean?" which transitioned to a deeply disturbed and saddened tone.
The person who made the call continued to speak to Mrs. R at which point she started bawling, sobbing and her voice was muffled by hysteria. Her cries grew loud and she stepped outside of the room to see other teachers crying as well. It was all very odd. Our principal came to each room and told us we were going home early. I didn't mind that one bit until I arrived home and witnessed the carnage that was transpiring not 20-30 miles from me. Two kids in my class lost their parents that day and another's were severely injured. The cries my teacher let out were of the most saddened I have ever heard.
Those who die innocent deaths never really die. They are everywhere; we just don't see them in quite the same way. And the culmination of what they were and what their death meant is as prevalent and tangible as the warmth in your soul and the sorrow in your heart.
Imran (story excerpt)