A young boy writes of his father, a policeman, who died while trying to rescue people during the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.
My name is Gabriel Torres, and I am now 11 years old. I will be 12 later on this year. I live in New York City, New York, with my Mami and my little brother, Arturo; and also my little sister, Alexia.
I am writing about my father, Sergio, who was a policeman. My father is no longer alive; he died on September 11, 2001, when he was trying to save people who were trapped in the World Trade Center. He died when the tower collapsed; and we were so scared when we saw it happening on tv. (We were rather close to the area, but when that second plane hit, we figured we had better get the hell out of there, so we went to where it was safe. We then stood around a deli window, watching the event unfolding on tv; and we didn't think something so major could happen here in New York, but what WAS going on WAS scary, and we didn't know what the hell was going on. We figured that a plane had run by accident into the first tower, and then another plane had run into the other one because the pilot was paying attention to the one burning building, and he didn't watch where he was going until it was too late; and by then, he couldn't get the plane out of the way in time before he smacked into the building.) But then we heard the words "terrorist attack", and when I heard that, my stomach lurched, and it fell to my toes; and I got scared. I thought we were going to get bombed, and I began to cry in fright.
But one of the worst parts about this whole deal was when the tower collapsed. I knew my dad was there, helping other police, fire, and rescue people in getting victims out of the two burning buildings; and when I saw the first tower start collapsing downwards, I got scareder than scared, and I knew right off that dad was killed or very badly injured. But I didn't say anything to Mami: she was already plenty upset about it already, and I didn't want to make her more worried than she already was at that time. So I kept my mouth shut; but all that time I had a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, especially when dad didn't come home. Hour by hour we waited, but dad didn't come home; and I got more and more worried.
The hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks; and it was two weeks after the attack when we finally got the news we had wanted to hear, but also not wanting to hear: they found the remains of my dad, and he was truly dead; he died when the tower had collapsed, and he probably died instantly, judging from the horrendous shape his body (or what was left of it) was in. OF course, at the news, Mami started crying, and I did too; and I tried to be brave in front of Alexia and Arturo; but I wasn't very successful, and they became upset and began to cry, too. We couldn't believe that dad was dead; it didn't seem possible; but it was, unfortunately.
I didn't go to the funeral (I had to stay behind to take care of Alexia and Arturo), but Mami went, and so did our aunties and uncles; and when they came home, they were all crying; and when they saw us, they clucked sympathetically and they gave us hugs and kisses and held us in their arms tight. But they DID give me a card with his picture on it, and they gave me some of his badges; and they also gave me his hat he wore on the job. They all said that the funeral service was very sad, and that the church was packed to bursting; and everyone at the funeral cried. I cried too, but I was mad because I wanted to go to the funeral, but I didn't get to because I had to take care of the two littler kids.
We then went to a special memorial service, and I cried my eyes out until I could hardly see; and I wanted this awful sad time to end; but it seemed that as the weeks went by, the sadder and more depressed I became. I then got angry, good and angry, and I wanted to go to wherever those terrorists were from and just bomb the hell out of their country and people. I didn't like them one bit for what they did to America, and I wanted them DEAD, just like my dad. I couldn't understand why they would hate America so much to where they would want to harm us in such a mean and hurtful way, and I hated them because they killed my dad.
I still have nightmares today about the attack, and I still hate those people who were behind the attack; they were evil, nasty people, and I don't see why they had to kill my dad (or many other people) the way they did. What they did was pure evil and was out of hate; and I can't understand why they would hate us. We didn't do anything to them; WHY then, should they hurt US in such a dispicable, unthinkable way??
If it weren't for these people, my dad would still be alive today; but because of their hatred for us here in America, my dad is dead, and my life is no longer the same. I no longer sleep as well as I did before we were attacked, and now that we are at war, I worry even more about America and her safety. I don't see why nothing is being done to find these Al Quaeda people or put a stop to terrorism once and for all! I cry a lot more than I used to, and then people wonder why I get so mad when they tell me to "get over it and move on."
HOW can I get on with my life when these people killed people "in the name of religion"? What kind of people are these people, and why do they hate America and Americans so much?? What did we ever do to them to deserve such an awful thing to happen? Now, because of these terrorists, New York City (and the entire world, really) is no longer the same, and we don't feel as safe as we once did; and New York City has been forever changed. Twin towers no longer stand, and too many innocent lives were lost, including my father. My father is now no longer alive, and my life will never be like it was. My father was a good man, and he loved his policeman's job! He helped people, and he was a very respected guy on the police force; why did he have to die in such a horrible way, and what did he do to deserve being killed when all he was doing was trying to help other people in need?
a powerful, emotional story you have penned here--our heroes are not the overpaid, overly exposed (pun intended) athletes, movie stars and (so called) entertainers...it is our police officers, firefighters, ems workers, doctors and nurses, dog search and rescue teams (and their handlers), laborers, teachers, and average joe-blow volunteers (also our men and women in uniform).
