Jeff Cangialosi

This year I did want to take a moment and share a reflection on my father, Stephen Cangialosi, who worked on the 104th Floor of the North Tower and died 25 years ago today.

Earlier this year in June, I conducted an oral history with the 9/11 Museum to record my memories of 9/11. After spending much of the last 25 years not really wanting to talk about or be defined as a 9/11 kid, I felt a strong urge to share my memories. I think a lot of this has to do with being a father myself. With two young boys now, I want them to understand that day. I am also keenly aware how valuable any type of window into my father’s mind would be to me. If I’m not here, I want my sons to know how I experienced that day and who their grandfather was from my perspective.

I’ve found myself googling my father’s name hoping I will find more. There are a few standard obituaries floating around and a couple photos, but that is about it. For better or worse, there are no social media accounts, no blog, and only an old AOL account that I can no longer access. By comparison with many children who lost a parent on 9/11, I am fortunate. I had many years to form memories and get to know my father. I of course never got to the stage where I could have an adult relationship with him. As I reach the point in my life where I am overlapping with the years in which I knew him, I am more aware of that then ever. How did he navigate fatherhood? Did I ever irrationally burst into tears when he gave me cheerios instead of Corn Flakes for my morning cereal? How did he handle that?

My dad was a bond trader at Cantor Fitzgerald. As a kid, I had no conception of what a “bond” was. For a while, I thought my dad traded bombs, which sounded cool at least. While he may not have loved the culture of the trading desk, he worked hard and provided for our family. He found financial markets intellectually stimulating and had recently completed coursework to become a Certified Financial Planner (CFP). He had plans to leave the desk in the coming weeks and had a flight booked the next day (September 12th) to fly to San Diego for a conference, a “what if” timing scenario that I cannot think too much about.

It is outside of work though where I of course really knew him. He would arrive home every evening around 6:30 PM. My brother and I would mob him as he walked in the door, jumping into his arms and then roughhousing for a few minutes before my mom ushered us all to the dinner table where he would drink a glass of apple juice and debrief with us on our days. When daylight permitted, there was then a quick catch in the backyard or play session in the basement before it was off to bed. A simple routine, but it’s one I believe he cherished.

One of the most beautiful things about becoming a father is that it has helped resurface so many memories of my own father that I had tucked away ages ago. As I waded out into the ocean this summer with my son Liam, I could distinctly recall being alongside my father, a former ocean lifeguard in Sea Bright, NJ, learning how to jump waves. I remember his stark warning to respect the power of the ocean and never turn my back on a wave. More subtle than the words, it was the feeling of comfort I could recall as I swam next to him within his protective realm, knowing that I was okay alongside him.

As I’ve come to learn, much of parenting is making it up as you go. Despite the short window of time together, I think my dad greatly influenced my gut reactions about how to parent and show up for my sons. My dad was a goof. He could make me laugh and scream with joy. He was also serious and had high expectations. When I was struggling with reading in 3rd grade, we sat down at the dining room table for hours every weekend and worked on phonics. When he died, there was no doubt in my mind that one critical way of honoring him was to try and live up to the bar he set.

Reflecting back on the days immediately after 9/11, the thing that often stands out to me the most is the feeling of community. I know it is something many talk about in the aftermath of 9/11. At my dad’s wake held at his old high school, which I would eventually attend as well, hundreds of people showed up to pay their respects. People who knew him from the neighborhood, from church, from the sports leagues he coached, from college, from former workplaces. There were also people who didn’t know him directly but knew of him via relatives and friends. It strikes me now that there was a largeness to his life that this outpouring reflected. It was not large in the sense of fame or a fancy lifestyle, but large in the sense of really belonging somewhere.

If nothing else, I hope this anniversary is a reminder of the power of community and being a neighbor. Unfortunately, much division has ensued in the last 25 years, but for a brief moment among the pain, sadness, and fear of that time, there was a shared humanity that prompted friends and strangers to come together, finding commonality despite our differences. I will always be grateful for all those near and far who came to the support of my family at that time and in the years following. May we never forget those who died that day, and may we continue to take care of all those who rushed to the scene and continue to suffer from the consequences of that day.