FDNY Girl

As some of you know, I am the daughter of a firefighter. This fact defines me as much as any other important fact of my life, probably more. There's a camaraderie in the fire department that I've never seen the likes of anywhere else, and you are a part of it if you are one of the kids. I remember visiting a firehouse a day or two after 9/11, crowds of people and reporters on the sidewalk outside. I introduced myself to one of the guys and he immediately pulled me into his arms and brought me inside. "You're family," he simply said. I was welcome to sit at the big kitchen table and cry and wait with the others, and I did.

What I remember most is feeling tremendously proud of the work my father did. I knew that when my dad left for work and I didn't see him for a few days, he was helping people on the worst days of their lives. I could imagine him putting on his boots and helmet and coat, jumping on the truck on his way to fight fires and carry people to safety. I could even smell the smoke.

I thought Dad and his firefighter friends were amazing men and I still do. They were giants: strong, courageous, and wise. Hands down, the funniest people I've ever met. Their stories aren't mine to tell, but trust me, they are absolutely hilarious. Tommy Gavin has nothing on them. My dad and his crew worked in the South Bronx during the legendary 1960s and 70s when the fires were constant.

My dad was known as a "firefighter's firefighter," and I knew all too well what this meant. Beloved by his fellow firefighters, he was the kind of guy you wanted to do a tour with because he was braver than you. He was the guy whose shoulder had your back, the one who never hesitated, the guy who ran into the building without waiting for equipment because a woman was screaming bloody murder for her husband who was trapped inside.

It is fair to say that I was more than a bit of a worrier as a child. Acutely aware of the risks involved in my father's job, there were many days and nights I wished he did something else for a living. For the most part, when Dad was working a day tour, I felt pretty sure he was safe. In my child's mind and heart, the real danger was at night when everything was dark and quiet and still. I remember turning down invitations to spend the night with friends when I knew my father was working. I somehow felt he would be safer if I stayed home; of course it didn't make sense but it didn't have to. I learned to live on a kind of alert system as a kid, and even now I constantly scan the room and the world for danger. It will always be a part of me.

I remember visiting my grandmother in the Bronx, lying awake in her second bedroom, tossing and turning in the heat of summer and listening to the sirens going all night. To this day, I like the sound of those sirens. They are at once exciting and frightening, both jarring and oddly comforting. As long as I could hear that sound in the distance, I felt nothing really terrible could happen.