Countdown to 9/11 Anniversary.. Victims to terrorists "you lose"

Their fathers were killed on 9/11, and 15 years
later they carry a message: Look at us, more
resilient than ever.
To the terrorists, they say, "You lose."
"We're still here," says Patrick Hannaford, who
was 2 years old when his father, Kevin
Hannaford, 32, was killed on the 105th floor of
the World Trade Center's north tower, where he
worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. "We've rebuilt, and
we're stronger now than we were then. It's just
a good feeling to know they failed."
"All of us are sitting here -- successful,
intelligent," says Jessica Waring, 29, who lost
her father, James Waring, 49, on the second day
of her freshman year of high school. "The fact
that we could rise above it shows the type of
people we are. Al Qaeda and now ISIS, they're
not going to beat us."
There were 3,051 children under the age of 18
who lost a parent on 9/11. Ten of them -- ages
14 to 29 -- gathered on the 10th floor of 7 World
Trade Center recently to share their stories in a
Town Hall with CNN's Brooke Baldwin. They
spoke of their loss and of lessons learned. Of
what it has been like to come of age in the age
of terror.
All lost their fathers. Five of the 10 have no
memory of them. Two -- Kevin Hannaford and
Rodney Wotton -- were born after 9/11. They
exude youthful optimism mixed with tremendous
maturity. They don't bear hate. Far from it.
The building that once stood where they've
gathered collapsed the afternoon of that fateful
day, collateral damage from the towers being
felled. The new building that has taken its place
personifies them -- having risen from the ashes,
rebuilt after years of hard work, polished and
impressive.
The room overlooks the 9/11 Memorial, with its
footprint waterfalls and quiet space.
Hallowed ground. Their fathers' graves.
"A lot of our parents' bodies weren't found after
9/11, so that could be literally where our fathers'
bodies lay to this day. It is a memorial, and it is
our grave," says Caroline Tumulty-Ollemar, 15.
When she goes to the site, she finds her father's
name inscribed in the bronze parapet
surrounding the memorial pool where the south
tower once stood. Lance Richard Tumulty was
the football captain of his high school team, a
32-year-old manager for Euro Brokers Inc., who
worked on the 84th floor. She reaches out, runs
her fingers across the letters.
"I put my hand on his name and talk to him," she
says. "I just like to catch up and let him know
how I'm doing, and let him see that what has
happened to him hasn't held me back."
Sometimes, he reaches back. One night this
summer, she looked at her father's photograph in
her room and felt something brush against her
shoulder. "Not in a creepy way," she says, crying,
"but in a way that he was there and he was
saying, 'You're going to be OK.'
"It was just like him putting his hand on my
shoulder and saying, 'I'm so proud of you.'"
They are a tight-knit crew, these 10. Being with
each other brings comfort.
Kevin Parks, 29, mentors Rodney Wotton, 14. He
takes him to ball games and dinners, and lends
support when the pain becomes overwhelming.
Rodney is the same age now that Kevin was
when he lost his dad.
Born eight days after the attack, Rodney initially
resisted emotional support when his mother
suggested they seek it out. He was afraid that
being around others "would kind of bring back
memories of how I didn't have a dad."
But then the two met at a gathering of
Tuesday's Children, an organization created to
help the children who lost a parent on 9/11. And
now, sitting beside Kevin at the Town Hall,
Rodney talks of the transformative power of their
relationship. "He's just been the father figure in
my life since I never did meet my dad."
Surprised by the admission, Kevin responds, "It
means a lot hearing that. I've always said I get
more out of the relationship than he does."
Adds Jessica Waring, "With people who have
gone through what you've been through, it's an
unspoken thing. You're instantly friends."
Some have been confronted by conspiracy
theorists. They were told that 9/11 didn't
happen. That the planes didn't hit the towers.
"I just want to look at them and go, 'Then, where
did my father go?'" says Tumulty-Ollemar. These
10 symbolize resilience. They brush off
negativity. Maintain focus. Rebound from the
depths of despair.
That's something 21-year-old Austin Vukosa
knows well. He was 6 when his father, Alfred
Vukosa, 37, was killed. One of the few memories
he recalls is playing catch in the park, his dad
snagging the baseball with his bare hands.
In the months after the attacks, he went to his
mother with a plan to join his father: He wanted
to slit his wrists.
"I was telling my mom I wanted to be in the
same place my dad was -- just to be with him,"
he confides. "Obviously, looking back, it sounds
kind of frightening."
A recent graduate of the University of Notre
Dame, he is honoring his father by following in
his footsteps. In August, he completed his first
month of work at Cantor Fitzgerald, where his
father worked as an information technology
specialist. Cantor was hit especially hard, losing
658 of its 960 employees on 9/11.
"Just to follow his footsteps at the same
company has been a big sense of
accomplishment for me," he says.
Walking through the doors on that first day was
"definitely surreal."
"It drew me a little closer to him."
To be close to Dad is something they all yearn
for.
Jessica Waring's father was a diehard Green Bay
Packers fan . Recently, when she was walking
down the street in Manhattan and thinking about
him, she looked up to see somebody wearing a
Packers jersey. The time on her phone read
9:11. It gave her chills.
That kind of thing happens all the time.
Nicole Pila, 17, often listens to a recording of
her father in his final moments. James
Gartenberg, a 35-year-old real estate broker in
the north tower, spoke with WABC news anchors
by phone shortly after the building was hit. He
was on the 86th floor on the east side of the
building, trapped with one other person. He
described the windows blowing out from the
inside when the plane struck.
"Debris has fallen around us," he says. "Part of
the core of the building is blown out.
"If I'm on the air, I want to tell anyone who has
a loved one in the building, the situation is under
control for the moment and the danger has not
increased. So, please, all family members take it
easy."
Says Nicole: "In his last moments, he was
putting others before himself." The recording
brings him back to her. "It's the last thing I have
left of him."
Juliette Scauso, 19, is among the few who has
an artifact from that day. Dennis Scauso, 46,
was one of 343 firefighters killed on 9/11. His
crushed helmet was recovered.
And it comes with a remarkable story. Juliette's
mother and other widows of 9/11 had gone to a
psychic in February 2002 searching for answers.
They were desperate for any sign, any clue of
their loved ones. The psychic looked at her and
said she could see her husband's badge number
as clear as day.
Juliette's mother made phone calls and
eventually learned, yes, there was an item with
Dennis Scauso's badge number. In the hectic
fray of search and recovery, nobody had
informed the family of the discovery.
"The helmet is crushed to about this big,"
Juliette says, holding her thumb and finger about
2 inches apart. "The entire thing. It's
unrecognizable. But the badge number, which is
made out of a sticker, is perfectly intact."
No other remains of her father were ever
recovered. Her mom keeps the helmet wrapped
in plastic in her bedroom. "It's bittersweet
because it was something of his -- something
that was with him during his last moments."
That feeling of emptiness, of not being able to
give their fathers a proper burial, is omnipresent.
More than 40%of the 9/11 families never
received their loved one's remains.
For Sal Pepe, a formal goodbye to his namesake
came 10 years after the attacks. His father,
Salvatore Pepe, 45, worked on the 97th floor of
the north tower as an assistant vice president
for technology at Marsh & McLennan.
In 2011, his family bought a crate and filled it
with letters, photographs and other special
keepsakes for burial. They wrote messages on
white balloons and released them at the
ceremony. His mother had a hard time letting go
of her balloon.
Sal was 11 at the time. The young boy told his
mother it was OK to let go -- that his father
would always be with them. He kept himself
from crying that day "to be strong for my mom."
"I'm dedicating most of my life to making him
proud," says Sal, now 16.
These children grew up too fast. Love your
friends and family now, they advise -- and don't
be shy about telling them so. Because life can
end in a nanosecond.
Kevin Parks ran his first Boston Marathon in
2013. He finished the race and was celebrating
with friends and family at a rooftop bar when the
bombs went off. The friend next to him was the
same guy who was next to him in math class on
9/11.
"It was weird, almost déjà vu," Kevin says. "The
unfortunate part is tragedies of different
magnitudes happen all the time. I think the easy
default emotion is anger and frustration, and
that's natural. I'd prefer people react with a
more positive tone ... to figure out a way to
make the most of a terrible situation."
Patrick and Kevin Hannaford honor their dad by
helping others. With their mother, they formed
the Kevin J. Hannaford Sr. Foundation, a charity
that helps pay the tuition of children who have
lost a parent in their hometown of Basking Ridge,
New Jersey.
The charity's main fundraising event has always
been blessed with perfect weather. The running
family joke, they say, is that it's their dad's
"signature on the day."
"We feel him a lot that day," Patrick says.
Patrick was 2 on 9/11 and was thrust into the
role of consoling his pregnant mom and helping
to raise his brother Kevin, born four months
later.
"He stepped up to be my dad," Kevin says.
With their short-cropped blond hair and bright
smiles, they are spitting images of their father.
One photograph of their dad in swim trunks as a
boy looks so much like the young Kevin that
when people see it, they say, "That's a great
photograph of you."
"It's actually my dad," he responds.
"It makes me feel good," he says. With a big
grin, he notes his father was handsome, "so
hopefully I can be the same way when I'm
older."
This group knows loss, undoubtedly. They also
know love.
If they could ask their fathers one last question,
what would it be?
Nicole Pila immediately pipes up: "Are you proud
of me?"
"I would say the same thing," adds Austin
Vukosa. "I would want to know if he's proud."
Jessica Waring: "Yeah, I think I'd want to know
the same thing, too."
Patrick Hannaford pauses. "I don't know. There's
a lot to ask, so I'm not sure what I'd pick."
His younger brother, Kevin, says he'd ask, "How
are you?"
"I've never met him. There would be a lot. I
could write a book."
Caroline Tumulty-Ollemar says she'd want to
know "if he was satisfied with the time he got
here."
"I think I'd want to know," says Sal Pepe, "if he
had a funny memory or a funny story that he
could share."
Juliette Scauso: "I would ask if he was proud of
not only me, but who my family has grown into
without him there."
"I'd ask him to tell me some of the stories I was
too young to know back then," says Kevin Parks.
The last one to reveal his question is Rodney
Wotton. "I would ask if there were ways to
remember him more, like if he's proud of the
way we're keeping him in our life."
These children will never forget.
And they don't want the world to forget either.


Source :cnn
Edited by DANIEL IKECHUKWU EKWUNIFE