“The Department continues its unwavering call to protect and serve,” are words I never truly understood until the third grade. Now, as a pre-9/11 child coming of age in a post-9/11 world, I can’t forget them.
I am a New Yorker, born and raised, and I learned to walk on city streets. Namely, the streets surrounding the house of Engine 66/Ladder 61 in the Bronx. My dad has been on the job longer than I’ve been alive and he always came back home, so on the morning of September 11th, I never dreamed that there was another possibility. My dad was Superman, he was invincible. No fire, no EMS call, no nothin’ could hurt him. That morning, the only thing that registered on my radar was that my dad wasn’t dropping me off at school. The only thing that registered is that he was headed back over the Throggs Neck Bridge, and that I would have to wait to see him at dinnertime.
He didn’t come home for a few days. I didn’t understand what happened for a much longer time than that. My memories of this time are of memorial services and funerals for his friends and co-workers, characterized by a constant visual of dark blue cloth and shined silver, of white gloves and American flags. What I did understand was that something very big, something very bad, had happened and my dad helped in at least some small way. Now, at age 20, I’ve come to realize that he helped in more than a small way. 9/11 was in the middle of my dad’s year-long stint as a fire marshal, meaning that, in addition to the immediate emergency relief that all firefighters gave, he spent time down there long after others were no longer assigned the detail. He stayed at Ground Zero sorting through rubble; he stayed at the morgue identifying the bodies. He received an authentic piece of steel from the Twin Towers in a case with his name on it—something that, during the aftermath, was given to whole companies, not many individuals. He went back to the firehouse after, preferring to relinquish the promotion for something more familiar, but both the things he saw and the physical effects never left him. I’ve never told him this, but I live in fear of the day his body can’t keep up with him, the day his wheeze becomes too much to handle. I woke up this morning and told him I loved him.
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My father is a humble man, and would never tell you any of this himself, so I’m sharing what our family went through in an effort to help shed light on how it felt to be a New Yorker during such a dark time. To answer the questions I get every year on this day. To show you how lucky my family was to still be together at the end.
Some families weren’t so lucky. In fact, part of the reason I am able to attend Boston College is because of the Michael Lynch Memorial Foundation. Michael Lynch, like many other firefighters that day, died going into the Towers to save others. His family has worked tirelessly to help the children of those affected by the attacks to afford higher education. They are a true example of men and women for others, and Michael Lynch is a true hero. If you ever need to feel inspired or are looking for an appropriate way to remember the fallen, reading Michael’s story is the way to go.
There is a picture of my dad wearing his bunker gear, standing in the middle of the debris. There is a video of Michael Lynch, wearing his bunker gear, walking into the fire and the chaos. I like to think that they had similar qualities—hardworking, selfless, brave.
“The Department continues its unwavering call to protect and serve,” is part of the FDNY Mission Statement. Twelve years later, the men and women of the Department are doing just that. Twelve years later, I am still a firefighter’s daughter, and I will never forget.
Photo Credit, in order of appearance:
1. http://cdn.blisstree.com/files…
2. unidentified professional photographer, print given to Joseph Leahy
3. from The Michael Lynch Memorial Foundation website
4. Joseph Leahy
5. video from The Michael Lynch Memorial Foundation website