Calls Made to the Families of 9/11 Victims

An Nguyen sits for a portrait at George Mason University in Fairfax, Va. Nguyen had simply turned 4 when his father died in the 9/11 attack on the Pentagon. Ian Morton/NPR hide caption

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An Nguyen sits for a portrait at George Mason University in Fairfax, Va. Nguyen had just turned 4 when his father died in the ix/11 attack on the Pentagon.

Ian Morton/NPR

20 years ago this calendar week, on Sept. 11, 2001, terrorists launched coordinated attacks on the U.S. using airplanes as their weapons.

Virtually iii,000 people were killed.

Many of those who died left backside children who were and so young they never got to know their parents. A new generation has grown up over the past two decades with few if whatsoever memories of those they lost; perhaps just a hazy glimpse that continues to fade over the years, or a faint repeat of a voice.

These are some of their stories.

"How exercise I define myself without the virtually important male person role model in my life?"

An Nguyen smiles as he flips through some old family photos: in that location he is, a 1-year-old, cuddling on his father'south lap. A three-yr-old, riding high on his dad's shoulders at their home in Fairfax, Va.

But then in that location he is, having merely turned iv, wearing a traditional Vietnamese white headband for mourning, weeping over his begetter's catafalque.

"Beingness so young then vulnerable," An says, "it was a actually hard time."

An's male parent, Khang Nguyen, was an electronics engineer who worked as a contractor for the Navy. He was killed when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon — a direct hit in the area where he worked. He was 41.

An Nguyen (left) holds a photo of his mother, Tu HoNguyen, and male parent, Khang Ngoc Nguyen, in front of the Twin Towers; young An Nguyen (correct) stands outside the Pentagon, days after the assault. Ian Morton/NPR ; Nguyen Family hibernate caption

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Ian Morton/NPR ; Nguyen Family unit

There's a family unit photograph of An — a pocket-size male child in khaki overalls, standing exterior the Pentagon — taken simply a few days after the attack. He's clutching an orangish safety contend. Where the plane struck the building, a whole department is gone. There's but a blackened, gaping hole, open to the sky.

Khang Nguyen was born in Vietnam. He grew upwards amidst the trauma of state of war, and emigrated from Vietnam to the U.Southward. in 1981, where he met and married An'south mother, Tu HoNguyen. An is their but child.

An'southward memories of his father are few. "He would sing, sometimes very loudly," he recalls. "A lot of classical or traditional songs in Vietnamese."

In a picture book he made in elementary school, titled What My Begetter Means to Me, An wrote, "When my male parent died, I forgot everything from him. I was very sad when he died, simply I withal beloved him so much."

An Nguyen stands with his female parent, Tu HoNguyen, for a portrait at George Mason University, where he completed his undergraduate caste and is currently pursuing his primary's. Ian Morton/NPR hide caption

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Ian Morton/NPR

To illustrate that page, An sketched a jet plane about to crash into the Pentagon. He drew himself off to one side, with tears falling down his face.

As he's grown, with and so few memories of the father he lost, An has had to reckon with huge life questions.

"In some regards I'm on my own," he says, "trying to empathise how this world operates and peradventure more than chiefly, how do I know myself? How practice I define myself without the most important male role model in my life?"

An, who will turn 24 on Sept. 9, is a software engineer, before long to get his master'south caste from George Mason University. It's a degree his dad was on track to get himself when his life was cut short.

In this xx^th ceremony year, An sees his upcoming educational achievement as a gift for his father. "It embodies my begetter's legacy," he says. "I know he would be very proud of where I've gone and what I've persevered for, under his name."

On nine/xi, An and his mother plan to attend the annual memorial service at the Pentagon. At home, on the family unit altar for Khang, they will set out his favorite foods: the Vietnamese noodle soup pho, some tropical fruits, and chè, a sweetness pudding. They will light incense, and pray.

Laurel Homer at her dwelling house in Wilmington, N.C., on Aug. 24. Homer's father, LeRoy Homer, was the co-airplane pilot of United Flight 93, and was killed in the crash just outside Shanksville, Pa. Catie Ho-hum/NPR hide explanation

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Her mom told her bad men on his plane killed her dad, and it fabricated her afraid of all men

In a field but exterior Shanksville, Pa., the Flying 93 National Memorial features a towering instrument: 40 wind chimes, representing the 40 passengers and crew who died when United Flight 93 crashed there after existence overtaken by hijackers.

LeRoy Homer was the co-pilot on that flight. He was 36 when he died.

He had fallen in dear with planes as a petty boy growing upwards on Long Isle, N.Y. He would watch aircraft take off and state for hours.

As a teen, he worked at night cleaning medical buildings to save up coin for flying lessons. He got his individual pilot'south license when he was 16.

Homer joined United Airlines subsequently a military career as an Air Force pilot, flight C-141 cargo planes during the Gulf War, and afterwards, flying humanitarian missions in Somalia.

Laurel Homer shows a photo of her father belongings her when she was a infant. LeRoy Homer was 36 when he died in the crash of Flying 93. Catie Boring/NPR hide explanation

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Homer's simply child, his daughter Laurel Homer, was ten months old when her father was killed in the crash.

"I don't know that much," she says. "It's something that I simply don't ask about a lot."

For Laurel, walling off the facts of her dad's death has been a protective measure. "It's something that I grew up kind of ashamed of," she says. "I wasn't normal like all the other people that went to my schoolhouse. It's something that makes me very vulnerable and information technology makes me dissimilar. And I didn't like people to know."

From a very early age, Laurel was traumatized by the little she did know about how her father died.

Laurel Homer was 10 months onetime when her father was killed in the crash. Catie Dull/NPR hide caption

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"The manner my mom explained it to me was that there were bad men on his plane and that he was gone because of those bad men," she says. "So then it basically made me terrified of all men, including family members, strangers, everybody."

Child therapy helped with that. Later, so did going to a summer camp for children who lost loved ones on 9/xi, Army camp Better Days.

There, Laurel says, she didn't feel different or vulnerable. Everyone understood what she was going through; they all shared that same empty space at the eye of their family.

Still, she wondered about the kids she met there who did have fourth dimension to get to know and dearest their parents.

"It'southward definitely a difficult identify to be when you saw a hereafter that y'all never got to have," she says. "We don't have memories to get to think most. We just have to recollect about what we didn't have."

Laurel, 20, is starting her senior year at Rutgers University, majoring in companion animal science. She usually avoids memorial services on 9/11; she tends to grieve alone. And she tries to ignore the abiding reminders — everywhere, in the news, on social media — of what that twenty-four hours means for her and her family.

To laurels LeRoy Homer's legacy, Laurel's mother, Melodie Homer, established the LeRoy W. Homer Jr. Foundation, which provides scholarships to immature people interested in careers in aviation. "I'm happy that my mom was able to make something proficient of a bad situation," Laurel says. "She's definitely shown that good things can come from those situations."

A.J. and Angelica Niedermeyer at their home's backyard in Wall Township, Northward.J., on August 19. A.J. was 2 ½ years old when their father died; Angelica was born eight months later. Marco Storel/NPR hide caption

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Marco Storel/NPR

"There'south never going to be a version of me that doesn't hate the people that did that"

When A.J. Niedermeyer tries to call up his father, who died when A.J. was 2 ½, it's "more a sense than a memory," he says. "A warm fuzzy feeling, for sure."

A.J. is named for his begetter, Alfonse Niedermeyer, who was known as "Big Al" – a strapping guy, oft the loudest voice in the room.

Alfonse Niedermeyer holds his son A.J. afterward catching a fish. Niedermeyer was a Port Authority police officer who rushed to the World Merchandise Center to help with rescues. He died in the due south belfry. Niedermeyer Family hide explanation

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Niedermeyer Family unit

A Port Authority constabulary officeholder who lived in Manasquan, Due north.J., he rushed to the World Merchandise Heart to help with rescues. He was 40 when he died in the southward tower.

Presently later on his memorial service, his wife, Nancy, discovered she was pregnant with their second child.

She chose the name Angelica, meaning "messenger of God." Middle proper noun: Joy.

"I've told yous this before, Angelica," A.J. reminds his sister, "you were one of the best things that could have possibly happened correct then, and then every year after that. It was huge for mom and huge for me, too."

"Cheers," Angelica whispers.

For Angelica, born eight months after her father died, all she knows of her father comes from photos, videos, or stories passed along.

"I do recall when A.J. would miss our dad," she says, "and I would effort so hard to understand. You know, he would say, like, 'Oh, I miss daddy,' and I'd exist, like, 'Well, I miss him, likewise!' fifty-fifty though I didn't even sympathise what that meant. I just wanted to exist included."

Responding to that, A.J. tells his sister, "I think for a long time, Angelica — I mean, I don't want to speak for you, but I think it meant a lot to you, the fact that I had had those 2 and a half years. But you know, I was so immature and at that place'southward so much that I don't remember."

Angelica says she had some resentment toward her brother because he had even those couple of years with their dad. "I was definitely jealous," Angelica admits. "My encephalon was like, 'Oh, at least my dad knew that he existed, and he had some time with him.' "

Both Angelica and A.J. say the hero narrative wrapped around the story of the 9/11 showtime responders can overwhelm their intimate, personal loss.

As A.J. puts it, it can be hard to cut through their dad's "larger-than-lifeness."

A.J. and Angelica Niedermeyer in front end of their house in Wall Township, Northward.J., on Aug. xix. Marco Storel/NPR hibernate caption

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Marco Storel/NPR

And, he says, it'due south difficult for him to tummy the means nine/eleven has become politicized: used every bit provender for both patriotism and retribution.

When he was 14, A.J. flew with his mom to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, to detect a pre-trial hearing for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and other defendants who are charged with orchestrating the 9/11 attacks.

"In that location's never going to be a version of me that doesn't hate the people that did that," he says. "I do desire justice, whatever that is, for the people who orchestrated it. And I do want justice for the systems that supported them financially and made it possible, gave them shelter. But I hate how our lives and our narratives become part of a narrative that's weaponized for interests that have null to do with usa."

Subsequently this month, A.J., who is 22, will head to graduate schoolhouse at the University of Chicago. Angelica, xix, is a sophomore at Manhattan College.

On 9/11, their family tradition is to visit the memorial at Ground Zero. There, they volition touch their begetter's proper name, inscribed with and so many others on the bronze parapet where the south tower once stood.

Amanda Trerotola holds a photo of her female parent Lisa holding her and her twin brother, Michael, in Columbus, Ohio on August 25. The twins lost their mother in the September 11th attacks. Maddie McGarvey for NPR hibernate caption

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Maddie McGarvey for NPR

It was years before the twins were told how their mom died, and their world shattered

A domicile video from 1997 shows Lisa Trerotola, with curly dark hair and a centre-shaped face, hugely and happily meaning with the twins she and her husband, Michael, had a hard fourth dimension conceiving.

"Seventeen weeks!" she says proudly. "Starting on my 5th month!"

The twins, Amanda and Michael, would be iii½ when their mom, Lisa, was killed in the north tower of the Earth Trade Eye. She was 36; an authoritative assistant for the Port Authority.

The twins were then immature when she died that they don't have much to hold on to.

"There's not a lot that I know nearly my mom," Michael says. "From what I understand, she was extremely hard-working and probably 1 of the kindest people you would meet."

Every bit for what Amanda remembers, "I probably just accept, like, two very cloudy memories of her," she says. "I can only run across images, but it's very slim to none."

Later nine/xi, Michael says, "I sort of retrieve that someone asked if she was coming home, and I recollect my dad replying that she isn't coming back."

But across that, the twins weren't told what happened to their mother. They had a vague idea that she had died in a fire. They don't remember a funeral.

Their dad soon remarried, and Lizz, whom they call their "new mom," became the mother they knew.

It wasn't until they were 11 years old that their male parent and Lizz sat them down and told them the truth: that in fact, their mom was killed in the attacks of 9/11.

"And I just retrieve my brother tucking his head in the pillow and merely crying his eyes out," Amanda says. "He was gasping, and so of course I started gasping."

Michael adds, "It was just utter daze."

Twins Amanda and Michael Trerotola were 3½ years quondam when their mom, Lisa, was killed in the north tower of the World Trade Centre. Maddie McGarvey for NPR; Marco Storel/NPR hibernate caption

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Maddie McGarvey for NPR; Marco Storel/NPR

The twins were finally told the reality when their parents thought they were former enough to understand information technology: Terrorists. Hijacking. Skyscrapers collapsing.

Everything the children thought they knew was shattered.

"Honestly," Amanda says, "information technology but felt like the world got a lot smaller at that moment, and it wasn't as safe anymore."

"I concur," Michael says. "That moment just yet sticks out to me because it's so earth-crushing. And what you idea you lot knew isn't what is."

Their parents' fears, exacerbated by 9/11, meant that the twins weren't allowed to go on trains, planes, or boats, and they couldn't go into Manhattan, even though they lived just nearly an hour abroad in New Jersey.

As their dad explains it now, he became hyper-protective, trying to guard the family against further loss.

Amanda and Michael are now 23 and college seniors, at Ohio State and The Higher of New Jersey, respectively. Neither of them has ever gone to see the Sept. 11 memorial at Ground Cypher.

Instead, they try to keep the retentivity of their female parent, Lisa, shut in small-scale ways.

Amanda remembers that when she went to take her driving examination to become her license, she brought along a photo of her mom, holding the toddler twins.

"Afterwards, I did find out I passed," Amanda says. "And I call up taking the picture out of my eye panel and just saying, 'Mom, I did it, and y'all would exist then happy! I really wish yous were here to, similar, run into me!' I just was overjoyed. And at one point I kissed the film and I was similar, 'See, I did it, mom!' "

After 20 years, the annual commemoration of those killed on 9/11 still feels overwhelming to them. "That feeling never goes abroad," Amanda says. "The fact that our family in essence is part of a national tragedy."

"It's only very troubling to navigate," Michael says. "It'due south like a giant ocean of loss and grief."

Michael Trerotola holds the rings his female parent, Lisa, was wearing on the day she died, in front of his abode in Morganville, Northward.J., on August 19. Marco Storel/NPR hibernate caption

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Marco Storel/NPR

"I exercise experience the absenteeism of my father. But it'southward weird because I don't know what I'one thousand missing"

Manuel DaMota Jr. never met his father, simply the elder DaMota'due south craftsmanship can still be found throughout the family'south Long Isle home. Tables, chairs and dressers around the house all bear the mark of Manuel Sr.'s skilled woodworker hands. The basement, which he built himself, has a workroom where some of his tools nonetheless lay just as he left them more than 2 decades ago.

Manuel Sr. was 43 when he was killed in the Due north Tower while working on a project for the Windows on the World restaurant. Manuel Jr., who goes by Manny, was built-in half dozen months afterwards.

Manny grew up collecting stories nearly his begetter from family unit members and friends. He says he was driven to find out more than about his dad to try to feel the same closeness others who were in his father's life can think from their own memories — memories Manny has to borrow.

"I simply realized that was someone I never met but at the same time was so love and then important to my life and who I am every bit a person," Manny says. "I practise feel the absenteeism of my father. But it's weird considering I don't know what I'thousand missing, simply I know I'm missing information technology."

Through stories and photographs, Manny has pieced together an understanding of his father as a Beatles lover, a gifted artisan and a "pillar" in the lives of those effectually him — always there for Manny's mother and elder blood brother, who was 10 when their begetter was killed.

Like Laurel Homer, Manny attended a summer camp for children who lost parents in the attacks. At America'south Camp, set in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts, he looked upward to the counselors, many of whom also lost a parent on 9/eleven.

He says that one of the nearly memorable parts of camp was conversations with counselors about their shared grief. Seeing counselors openly talk most their emotions became proof "to show ourselves that we can keep going without our loved ones there."

Later on attending camp for a few years, Manny moved to Paraguay in 2010 to exist closer to his female parent's family. He can recall at least five instances over a decade attending the American School of Asuncion when he became a steady shoulder to lean on for classmates who lost 1 of their own family members, just as the camp counselors had been for him.

The role came naturally to Manny, who aspires to a career where he can help people with their personal and emotional lives. He is at present a sophomore studying psychology at Pace Academy in downtown Manhattan, a ten-minute walk from Ground Zero.

During his freshman year, Manny visited the reflecting pools at least every other week, and sometimes more than than one time in the aforementioned week, because being there makes him experience close to his dad.

Usually he visits alone, but on the ceremony this year he will make the trip with his mother, elder blood brother and younger sister, who was born five years after ix/11. The family unit plans on saying Manuel Sr.'s proper noun aloud when information technology'due south read during the ceremony, and afterward, they programme on having dinner at i of Manuel Sr.'southward favorite restaurants before visiting his grave.

"I definitely accept that beloved towards him even though I never met him, never felt him," Manny says. "He was important to my family, therefore he's important to me."

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Source: https://www.npr.org/2021/09/05/1031794811/911-children-stories-legacy

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