I am a kindergarten teacher in San Francisco, California. When I got the horrific news on that bleak, foggy San Francisco day -- September 11, 2001, I wearily dragged myself into work. My old friend works in the World Trade Center, and my thoughts were of him and the thousands of other victims. Most of my students did not know what had happened. As they filed in line looking for direction, the next would be to come from where they had begun. Within five minutes of school being in session, schools in San Francisco were closed.

Parents came both calmly and frantically to pick up their students. As the last child was picked up I thought about how the class would be the next day if there was school. The next morning, I went to work and tried to hide my feelings of sadness until DeVonte came to me with big brown watering eyes and said, "I miss those people in the airplane."

I decided to show my emotion and let tears run down my face because I knew my students deserved to see my true emotions. We went inside and formed a circle.  We have a community circle every morning where we talk about ideas of positive behavior and our thoughts and hardships of everyday life.

Our circle that morning became an outlet for each student to share what they felt about the recent tragedy. I listened to all they had to say, and then we went around the circle again. I had them share something positive about someone in their lives.

We have made the week into appreciation of family. I told them, "Everyday, tell your family how much you mean to them. Tell them 'I love you!'"

Some are still drawing pictures of the crash, but most are celebrating the life and appreciation they have for their families. It has been a hard week on us all. We have dedicated two minutes each day to be completely silent and send love to those who have lost their lives and to those who have lost their loved ones.

When the alarm goes off, each child stands in momentary silence, closes her or his eyes, and "sends loves." It is truly magical to see 20 five-year-olds intently closing their eyes, some praying, some meditating, and some just with eyes wide open, their truth and wisdom before us sending all the love they can to people they don't even know. They have come to expect the alarm to signal at 10:15.

With love, peace, and friendship to all races and religions,

Marisa Martinez
San Francisco, California

(Have a response to Marisa's letter? E-mail us and don't forget to tell us your name, where you're from, and if we can use your words on our Web site.)

Among the moving commentaries on tolerance that have emerged from the past week's sadness and confusion is a piece from this week's Morning Edition on National Public Radio:

::: Them or Us?
More than ever, Iranian-American author and commentator Gelareh Asayesh worries about the way she looks, about the way her children look. Her friends and acquaintances have called her at her home in St. Petersburg, Florida, to see how she's been faring in the wake of last week's tragedies. Her American-ness is without question; she has loyally dedicated the past 24 years to her life in the United States. But her Muslim-ness has long overshadowed that fact, especially now, robbing her of her individuality. The dangerous assumptions some people make about who she is and what she stands for threaten her own sense of self but keep her clinging to the kind voices of those who have no doubt about the human being she truly and passionately is.

Listen to this story.

Learn more about Gelareh Asayesh's important book Saffron Sky: A Life Between Iran and America.

Explore the range of NPR essays on this week's radical transformation of America.

Talk to us. Share your thoughts on public radio's coverage from the past week.