In honor of the 25th anniversary of September 11, 2001, surely there has been no shortage of 9/11-related content. This piece, though — the latest in our Personals section — looks at this event that is heartbreaking and meaningful to so many, from an unexpected angle, as we always aim to do with our essays. I was intrigued by this one from the moment I first read it, and sure I wanted to assign it when I found myself telling my cousins about it on a weekend outing over the summer. We’ll let Pat take it from here… —Jesse Sposato, executive editor
For nearly 25 years, I have carried guilt over a meal of chicken parmesan and rigatoni.
On September 13, 2001, lower Manhattan was still burning. Thousands of people were missing, and rescue workers from across the country were pouring into New York. Two days earlier, freshly 23 and having recently risen to the rank of lieutenant, I had watched the attacks unfold on television like everyone else. Six years before that, wanting to follow in my father and my uncle’s footsteps, I had joined the Wyndmoor Hose Company in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, as a volunteer firefighter.
That Thursday, without hesitation, a small group of us led by my uncle, Chief Francis DePaul, formed a task force and reported to Jersey City. We were mostly expecting to be turned away — thousands of first responders were converging on New York City — but to our surprise, we weren’t. Instead, we found ourselves on the next Port Authority patrol boat to Manhattan.
