The little boy in the picture is almost 5 years old, and his name is John Esposito.
His grandfather's name was John Esposito, too. He worked at ground zero, which President Barack Obama plans to visit Thursday. He was from Bayonne, New Jersey, and was a structural mechanic for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, part of an elite team that got the call whenever they needed something done right, and right now. After 9/11, they did everything from building a podium for Mayor Rudy Giuliani to supporting the ongoing rescue efforts. John Esposito was also my brother-in-law.
A month after the attacks, he died. His sudden heart attack at 53 -- he had no history of heart problems -- was almost surely the result of exposure to the toxic environment where the World Trade Center used to stand.
It's easy to forget, amid the gradual re-imagining of ground zero as an orderly construction site, but in the weeks that followed the attacks, the giant pile of rubble was still smoldering, and small pockets would still occasionally burst into flames. John worked there 16 hours a day, seven days a week.
The last time I saw him, at my nephew's wedding in late September of 2001, he looked tired as he straightened my tie, like a guy who's seen things that no one should have to see. I figured I'd get the chance to talk to him about all that. I didn't.
His name can't be found on any memorial plaque and has never been read aloud among a list of the victims. But if not for the man whose death dominates the news this week, my brother-in-law would be alive today.
He missed the birth of his two grandchildren, John and his little sister, Abby. He missed his daughter's college graduation. He missed barbecues and brake jobs, softball games and Christmas dinners complete with the ritual arguments over the cold cuts platter. ("No, that's not the sopressata. That's the capicola. The sopressata's on the other side.")
He used to tease my niece and nephew, as they approached adulthood, "I can't wait till you and your brother have kids so I can teach them all of the bad things you two used to do." He missed that, too. He missed, well, life. We miss him, too. Every hour. Of every day.
It seems that most Americans are echoing the sentiments of my Facebook friend who's celebrating this moment in history by "loving the idea that the last thing this $%@#* saw was an American uniform." At some level, I can understand that.
But for me, and my family, this week is bittersweet at best. The sacrifices made by John Esposito, the people who loved him, and thousands of others like him and their families, are what matter now.
If there's such a thing as unmitigated evil in this world then He Who Must Not Be Named is as close to it as any of us hope to see. John Esposito, on the other hand, was a good man with a big heart. He was wise and funny. He could fix anything, and when he found the time, make beautiful things out of wood. And he was strong in every sense of that word.
After his wife -- my sister -- died the day after Christmas 1996, he insisted on keeping up the family tradition by cooking the next Thanksgiving dinner. It was, well, kind of a mess, highlighted by a turkey not quite medium rare. But even as we listened to our stomachs grumbling, we all knew that no one had ever put more love put into a turkey dinner. And we also knew that if he had a few more holidays, he would have served up a feast that would have made Martha Stewart jealous. It was a day to remember.
These are our stories, but every family touched by America's tragedy has its own, just as funny and sad and important and enduring.
The reason why there's been dancing in the streets is this: Americans crave closure, and a Navy SEAL raid is as close as we're going to get. But our family doesn't get closure, and given the price that comes with it -- forgetting someone we loved dearly -- we don't even want it.
So Monday, when my kids came home from school talking about the news of the day, I steered the conversation in a different direction. I told them about the man who bought me my first baseball glove -- a Rawlings Roberto Clemente autograph. I told them about the time he drove clear across New Jersey to take me to McDonald's, back before there was a Golden Arches on every corner.
I showed them the walk-in closet he built as a housewarming present. It wasn't closure but instead an opening of sorts. And when they get old enough to understand, I'll tell little John Esposito and his sister the same stories about their grandfather.
"Did I ever know him?" asked my son Ethan, who was almost 5 in September 2001.
"Not really," I replied. "But maybe you will."
The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Allen St. John.
His grandfather's name was John Esposito, too. He worked at ground zero, which President Barack Obama plans to visit Thursday. He was from Bayonne, New Jersey, and was a structural mechanic for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, part of an elite team that got the call whenever they needed something done right, and right now. After 9/11, they did everything from building a podium for Mayor Rudy Giuliani to supporting the ongoing rescue efforts. John Esposito was also my brother-in-law.
A month after the attacks, he died. His sudden heart attack at 53 -- he had no history of heart problems -- was almost surely the result of exposure to the toxic environment where the World Trade Center used to stand.
It's easy to forget, amid the gradual re-imagining of ground zero as an orderly construction site, but in the weeks that followed the attacks, the giant pile of rubble was still smoldering, and small pockets would still occasionally burst into flames. John worked there 16 hours a day, seven days a week.
The last time I saw him, at my nephew's wedding in late September of 2001, he looked tired as he straightened my tie, like a guy who's seen things that no one should have to see. I figured I'd get the chance to talk to him about all that. I didn't.
His name can't be found on any memorial plaque and has never been read aloud among a list of the victims. But if not for the man whose death dominates the news this week, my brother-in-law would be alive today.
He missed the birth of his two grandchildren, John and his little sister, Abby. He missed his daughter's college graduation. He missed barbecues and brake jobs, softball games and Christmas dinners complete with the ritual arguments over the cold cuts platter. ("No, that's not the sopressata. That's the capicola. The sopressata's on the other side.")
He used to tease my niece and nephew, as they approached adulthood, "I can't wait till you and your brother have kids so I can teach them all of the bad things you two used to do." He missed that, too. He missed, well, life. We miss him, too. Every hour. Of every day.
It seems that most Americans are echoing the sentiments of my Facebook friend who's celebrating this moment in history by "loving the idea that the last thing this $%@#* saw was an American uniform." At some level, I can understand that.
But for me, and my family, this week is bittersweet at best. The sacrifices made by John Esposito, the people who loved him, and thousands of others like him and their families, are what matter now.
If there's such a thing as unmitigated evil in this world then He Who Must Not Be Named is as close to it as any of us hope to see. John Esposito, on the other hand, was a good man with a big heart. He was wise and funny. He could fix anything, and when he found the time, make beautiful things out of wood. And he was strong in every sense of that word.
After his wife -- my sister -- died the day after Christmas 1996, he insisted on keeping up the family tradition by cooking the next Thanksgiving dinner. It was, well, kind of a mess, highlighted by a turkey not quite medium rare. But even as we listened to our stomachs grumbling, we all knew that no one had ever put more love put into a turkey dinner. And we also knew that if he had a few more holidays, he would have served up a feast that would have made Martha Stewart jealous. It was a day to remember.
These are our stories, but every family touched by America's tragedy has its own, just as funny and sad and important and enduring.
The reason why there's been dancing in the streets is this: Americans crave closure, and a Navy SEAL raid is as close as we're going to get. But our family doesn't get closure, and given the price that comes with it -- forgetting someone we loved dearly -- we don't even want it.
So Monday, when my kids came home from school talking about the news of the day, I steered the conversation in a different direction. I told them about the man who bought me my first baseball glove -- a Rawlings Roberto Clemente autograph. I told them about the time he drove clear across New Jersey to take me to McDonald's, back before there was a Golden Arches on every corner.
I showed them the walk-in closet he built as a housewarming present. It wasn't closure but instead an opening of sorts. And when they get old enough to understand, I'll tell little John Esposito and his sister the same stories about their grandfather.
"Did I ever know him?" asked my son Ethan, who was almost 5 in September 2001.
"Not really," I replied. "But maybe you will."
The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Allen St. John.
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