There is no doubt that every year, when September comes around, the 9-11 tragedy is on everyone’s mind. People will continue to remember where they were when they first heard the news. Personal stories are still shared and new ones will surface. For me, the tragedy has even greater significance and connection to my life. It was on that day, and the days that followed, that I found someone to look up to — a real hero.
My cousin Mary’s husband, Captain Thomas Farino of Engine 26 of the New York City Fire Department, gave his life on Sept. 11, 2001, during his efforts to save the lives of people he never knew. His unit, stationed in Manhattan, was one of the first to be called to the site of the World Trade Center. Tom’s body was never recovered, and he was posthumously promoted to Battalion Chief. He left behind Mary and their two wonderful children, Jane and Jimmy. He was only 37-years-old.
Only a few months prior to the tragedy, I met a girl whose last four digits of her phone number were 0911. Her name was Giovanna, she lived in Astoria, and on the day of the terrorist attacks, she and thousands of other New Yorkers were forced to walk over the Queensborough Bridge in order to get home due to chaos, fear, and confusion shutting down most methods of transportation.
In July of 2003, Giovanna and I were married, and in June of 2006, we were blessed with a son — Matthew. His middle name was very easy for us to decide upon. We wanted his name to have meaning, to be relevant. Therefore, because of both of our experiences on Sept. 11, and because of my cousin giving his life to save others’, we chose Thomas. Over these last few years, we have told Matthew about a family member who showed courage, kindness, dedication, and selflessness. Fictional stories are a joy to read to Matthew, but our story of what Tom did for others is very real and, obviously, quite different and unique.
On my car dashboard sits a photo of Tom. It makes me feel much more at ease when I’m driving, especially when I’m on my way to work. It reminds me of how fortunate I am to be able to begin another day.
I teach at John Adams High School in Queens, and each September I have a discussion with my students — who I consider extended family — about heroism. I ask them who their heroes are and I often get names of athletes, singers, actors, and other celebrities. I do get much more satisfaction when a student names a parent, guardian, or other relative as his hero because it relates more profoundly with my hero. After our discussion, I pass around a photo of Tom and I tell them all about his character. As a writing assignment, I instruct my class to create friendly letters addressed to their heroes. I encourage them to hand their letters to the individuals they wrote to, if possible. And if any of my students write to police officers or firefighters, I personally bring their letters to the local police and fire departments near our school.
As an American, I continue to feel the loss of each “family member” who died that day. As a New Yorker, it hits even closer to home. Cousin Tom was one of 343 firefighters who perished that day and his existence makes 9-11 more personal — he was someone who I saw at family weddings and exchanged handshakes, a pleasantry, or a simple smile with. He was dedicated to his family and to his career. He grew up in Ozone Park, died in Manhattan, and still lives in our hearts with each day that passes.
He remains a perfect role model for my son, Matthew Thomas Trotta.
