Beauty From Within the WTC Attacks

There she was, skipping, as little girls do.

She couldn’t have been more than 10 years old. The dark hair on top of her little face bounced as she bounced. That is until she sat down on a large slab of cement and smiled. I will never forget that beautiful smile.

There she was, smiling, outside the church of her daddy’s funeral.

This weekend marks the tenth anniversary of the worst tragedy in American history. Nearly three thousand people were killed in the terrorist attacks of September 11th. Those lives didn’t just pass when the planes crashed and building tumbled, they were snatched. And my friend Brian is one of the thousands who will never get over it.

Just a few months prior to the attacks, Brian had accepted a position with an investment management company in Pennsylvania. The Long Island native had recently graduated from Syracuse, where he was an acquaintance of my brother, Randy. Upon hearing that Brian would be moving near our home in Pennsylvania, Randy told him to call us when he settled in. Brian reached out on the day of Randy’s graduation party and showed up in the middle of the festivities.

I liked him instantly.

He was a walking oxymoron. Walking with a swagger amidst a broad smirk and tight black hair, he certainly seemed cocky, however it was apparent he was also quite genuine. He was loud, yet introspective. Smart and street-savvy.

As was standard practice at the time, the only way he could truly find inclusion into our circle of friends was in how he conducted himself while playing some pickup ball in the driveway. Brian was quick and drove with his head down. He had a lithe frame, with no more than 140 pounds tightly strewn on a 5-foot, 9-inch body, and somehow carried himself like a fullback. He talked trash and refused to back down.

Two hours into our basketball battles, I liked him even more.

Before long, the kid from Long Island was part of the family. My brother and I were living close by and since he shared our two favorite passions – basketball and women – he was the perfect bar hopping buddy. Meanwhile, my parents ensured that he always had a warm meal and a hug if he was ever feeling homesick.

Within a few weeks, Brian provided the energy for our summer league team and was on the court when my knee buckled back and I tore my ACL.

On the morning of September 11th, I saw the planes hit the World Trade Center as I was getting ready for my job as host of a high school sports show in Philadelphia. Still in a cast from the surgery and unable to drive, I continued to listen to the coverage of the terrorist attacks on the radio as a friend brought me to the office. We both sat in silence for most of the ride.

While I was at my desk in the mid-afternoon, fearing for my own safety in Philly, my mom called to say that Brian’s big brother, Tony, was working atop one of the towers when it went down. I left work immediately and was driven to Brian’s apartment.

Brian also left work in a panic and crashed his car on his way home. He wasn’t hurt and the other driver was empathetic to his situation.

Randy joined Brian and I at the apartment. As I sat on his couch with my knee raised, we couldn’t take our eyes off the television. We couldn’t stop dissecting every facet of the attacks. What did it mean for the country? Would we be protected? Is this coverage really on every single station?

The only thing we didn’t talk about was Brian’s brother. But the damn phone kept ringing. Each ring was jarring. It was almost as if the TV put us into a trance, placing us in the middle of a movie about some alternate place and time, when RRRRRRRRINNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG… The phone would blast us back to reality. We hoped each call would be from Tony. That he had gotten out safely. That he was just fine.

Instead, it was everyone Brian knew BUT Tony. Family. Friends. They all wanted to know if Brian had heard anything. Only what everyone else was privy to seeing on television too. He had nothing to offer them but his own disappointment.

As the hours passed, the phone calls trickled down and so, painfully, did my hope. The news coverage became less about the attacks and more about the people looking for their loved ones. Picture after picture after picture graced the screen, each framed in dust. All searching for one missing brother, sister, mom, dad, son, daughter, cousin, friend, husband, wife, or lover. A tearful, frantic mess, each face was symbolic of the entire day.

All methods of transportation into the city were halted so all we could do was sit and wait.

I don’t remember how, but we each slept that night. Probably three hours total between the three of us. Still in a haze the following morning, I heard Brian openly weep for the first time. The Red Cross told him Tony was not admitted as a patient in any of the New York City hospitals. This fading glimmer of hope was, also, snatched away.

As Brian sat in his bedroom wailing uncontrollably, Randy and I stood up and embraced. I have always loved my brother, but I have never appreciated him as much as I did in that very moment.

Over the next few weeks, Brian insisted his brother was alive. I admired his faith and felt sorry for his lack of closure. I remember him telling me how his mother wanted to have a funeral for Tony and he got mad at the mere suggestion. “How dare she lose hope?” he asked me. But I understood.

Not long after, I was on Long Island, in a dark suit and tie. As I walked down the grassy path to the entrance of Tony’s funeral, I saw that little, smiling girl. She was about the same age as my daughter is now. For all the unquantifiable sadness from that day, I shall always be most upset by what was left behind.

That beautiful smile.