A Decade of Hope

by Dennis Smith

  As a young boy Christian used to do some drawing, having a knack for the arts like his dad. When we moved to Co-op City in the Bronx, I became friendly with a social worker there. She came to our apartment one day, and after looking at Christian’s artwork from nursery school, said, “Sally, I’m seeing that your son is highly intelligent, from the way he made the windows and people in the windows. So when he starts going to grammar school, you have to get him tested.” At that time they had started something new in the city school system, a program for exceptionally talented and gifted students. The kids had to take an IQ test to get in, and they had one school for these children in each borough. So, at my friend’s suggestion, I seriously considered having Christian take the test.

  Now Christian was smart, but he was also a cutup. He was a very funny child, and some teachers didn’t like him because he had the ability to make the class laugh. If this happened in a Catholic school back in the day, the worst boy would get hit with the ruler stick. If the teacher asked the students to cite a word with a hard C, for example, kids would say words like “clock” and “cat” and so on. But Christian would always say something unexpected, like “cuckoo.” And, of course, the whole class would be in hysterics.

  Once I was called to the school, and I went over there with my heart in my hand, I was so scared. I looked at Christian, who looked fine to me. But the teacher was pointing at him, saying, “Look what he did.” He had apparently taken a scissors—the little scissors they give to kids at school—and cut his hair into a V-like [style]. The teacher sent me this big official note stating that Christian cut his own hair, with his own assigned scissors, at 12:05 P.M., on such and such a date. I framed that note, and I had that in my home for years and years.

  After the hair-cutting incident I went back to the teacher and said, “I’ve been advised, and I’d like my son to be tested.” She goes, “You’re just raising your hopes. Your son is an average student and, what’s more, he knows he’s average.” I told her, “You know what, I’d still like him tested.” And so he took the exceptionally gifted test while in the second grade. Well, end result: Christian aced the test, a standard IQ test. He scored a 146. The teacher almost collapsed. From there he went on to the gifted student program. My daughter was the studious one, a real brainiac, and although Christian was obviously smart, he was not as studious. He was a more laid-back, casual kid. And when he got into the Bronx High School of Science, I nearly fainted.

  Christian did very well at Science for the first three years. But in his fourth year there he spent more time cutting class and hanging out in Harris Field, the park across the street. Now, as a parent, I was typically very easygoing with my children. My husband was the taskmaster, the marine, the cop. I felt from a psychological point of view that children should be able to make their own decisions. But this time I got tough with him and said, “Christian, if you don’t graduate from Bronx Science I’m going to kill you.” He was shocked I had said that. By hook or by crook, though, he did it.

  But soon after came the greatest trauma I had had prior to 9/11, when Christian announced, one week before his nineteenth birthday, that he was joining the United States Marine Corps—for five years. I almost had a nervous breakdown. I spent the weekend in my nightgown and my robe, crying and fighting and going crazy and calling all my relatives trying to find ways to talk him out of it. I didn’t succeed—he was determined.

  A large part of Christian’s determination, I believe, grew from a very traumatic experience he had before joining the marines. He never told me outright, but I think it was a factor in his decision. He and his buddies were down in Manhattan on West Eighty-sixth Street. I don’t know exactly how it happened—maybe they were drinking a little beer or something—and Christian accidentally bumped into somebody on the street. This was in the lawless days of New York City, and they went after him with a broken beer bottle, mugged him, and slashed him. They cut him so severely that, thank God, the ambulance attendants said to him, Kid, when you get to the hospital, tell them you want a plastic surgeon. They took him to Lenox Hill Hospital, thank God. I only found out about it after he went to the hospital and received something like twenty-five stitches in his face. They almost ripped off his lower lip, and they almost got his eye. The plastic surgeon reassured me that he had done his best to maintain the integrity of the lower lip. And he really did. Thanks to the plastic surgery, you could hardly see any marks. God blessed Christian that day. Christian was a blessed person up until 9/11.

  I believe that it was a result of that horrible incident that Christian joined the Marine Corps. And let me tell you: He never harbored any resentment or hatred, but he had such mastery in everything that he was never going to be a victim again. No matter what happened to him, he would persevere.

  In hindsight, even though I was initially opposed, Christian’s becoming a marine may have been the best thing that he ever did. He entered the Marine Corps a kid who really didn’t know his way so much. He was searching, the way teenagers do, searching and looking and not knowing. He suffered like hell through the training—not that he ever felt sorry for himself—but he gained a competence in so many things. I believe that, often through suffering incredible things, qualities can surface that you didn’t know you had. I think Christian’s artistic and writing abilities grew tremendously.

  Sometimes great suffering can also give you great strength. I know that from my own journey, from the painful and bitter time that I’ve had. Prior to 9/11 I would not have been able to do the things I’ve had to do over the past ten years: to confront people; to challenge the system; to go after elected officials. At times I am shocked that I have so much adrenaline, but great suffering propels you.

  In the marines Christian became a person whom everyone was drawn to. He had all the qualities of a great friend, and people sought his friendship. He—I’m getting emotional—was a man’s man and a lady’s man together. Even when he was in grammar school he would get these little notes, and I have a collection of them, that the little girls in his class gave him. They would say, “Christian I love you,” with this funny big writing. Or, “I like you.” One of these girls wrote, “You can borrow my comb.” It was so charming and sweet. Another wrote, “This is the number to my locker.” Then the phone calls started when he was in junior high, and they kept coming in high school. I once told him, “If you dare touch these girls, just remember that they have brothers who will come after you.” I think he believed me, because throughout his life he had an admiration, respect, and love for women. He was a good guy. Nothing could prove that more than the fact that at his memorial service eight ex-girlfriends showed up. They remained friends with him, and that says a lot. He was a gentleman, and, boy, the world certainly needed people like him.

  After the Marine Corps Christian went to San Francisco State University. He lived in the Mission District, which was kind of a dicey area then. It was so cold in this brownstone thing that he lived in that he asked me to send him a quilt. He lived as a bohemian. He went to school. He had no money, but he would never take any from us, even if we offered it to him. That is how independent he was. He did a lot of part-time work in all these crazy jobs. He always bought his clothes from the Goodwill or the Salvation Army. He never wore a name brand or a label. He’d turn the shirt inside out rather than have an icon on it. He was a true bohemian. He studied art and writing. And, whenever he could, he traveled.

  Christian loved the culture and language of Latin America, so that is where he did most of his traveling. His first trip was to Mexico and Central America, right after high school. He went with his girlfriend, the first love of his life, and they went on this wonderful expedition, where they would slip some money to the guards and sleep in temples. That was the first time he got Montezuma’s revenge, and he was terribly, seriously ill. But it didn’t deter him from wanting to go back. So after settling in San Francisco, he made several more trips to Central and South America. He went on an expedition to Patagonia. He wa
s in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, many countries—altogether, including his time in the marines, Christian had been to twenty-two countries around the world. He taught himself Spanish and was a fluent and perfect speaker.

  Also on his travels he learned how to make handmade jewelry from the indigenous people of Central America—a silversmith-type of craftsmanship. We found in his room little tools that he would use on a piece of silver or wire to create silver florets, the most amazing silver florets. He made the florets very small and delicate, as they say en español. He made such beautiful jewelry. I had so many aspirations for him. He could have started his own line of jewelry and called it Christian R, Jewels by Christian R. I have a piece that he made for me, which is detailed with these beautiful, colorful stones. He was a colorful and vibrant person, and so was in love with these colors and the passion of Central and South America. He was not bland. He wasn’t a beige person. That’s why I wore a red jacket to his memorial. It was because he had mucho color. It was also for the Marine Corps. For the Fire Department. But it was really for Christian’s heart and his passion. My son wanted to live. My son lived for life. That’s why I had the song “Gracias a la Vida,” “Thank You for Life,” sung in Spanish.

  Christian was still living in California when he decided to take the test for the Fire Department. When he got out of the Marine Corps, I remember him once saying, “You know, Mom, hardly anyone likes the cops, but everyone loves the firefighters.” Even as the wife of a cop, I have to say that statement’s pretty accurate. Of course, I like the cops, but a lot of people out there, especially in the inner city, have a strong dislike for police authority. Maybe it’s a little different now, with so much terrorism, and people looking to the police to protect them. And Commissioner Ray Kelly has done such a fantastic job. I’m a critic of the system, but he’s the exception.

  It all started after a friend, who was also a former marine, once said to me, “Sally, when your son comes out of the Marine Corps, tell him to take all civil service tests.” And then, one day, I was reading the Daily News and I saw an ad for the Fire Department. I cut it out, and I sent it to Christian in San Francisco and said, “Christian, it wouldn’t hurt. Why don’t you take the test?” The greatest regret of my life.

  Well, the rest is history. He flew back from California to take the test. I bought him a book to study, and I think maybe he only looked at it on the plane. But he was so intelligent and so capable that he aced the test. The physical part, needless to say, wouldn’t be a problem either. Christian was a recon sergeant. If you’re familiar with the Marine Corps, you know that, first of all, it’s not easy to be promoted, and second, recon is the most elite outfit. So he aced the physical exam too. His capability was just unparalleled, and the department wanted him. When he went to the Rock, FDNY’s training school on Randall’s Island, they saw what he was capable of from day one. And they decided his experience in the Marine Corps made him an efficient platoon leader for his probie—probationary firefighter—group.

  Christian told me that he wanted to do the job temporarily, because it was hard to get a job in those days, too, in early 2001. Christian was not a paper pusher; he couldn’t be in the rat race. He was a person of integrity, and of action. He felt the Fire Department was something he would do until he could finish his studies in art and writing, either at Pratt Institute or at Cooper Union. But when he started working at the firehouse, he really liked it. Several fire companies wanted him. He was squared away. He was so easygoing, and he was ready to go.

  He went to a firehouse in a sort of a depressed area in Red Hook. He never complained. It was grueling, especially the commute from the Bronx. We knew nothing about the Fire Department—the only thing my husband knew was from when he used to coop [a practice, now no longer permitted, in which a police officer could take his lunch or dinner break relaxing in a local firehouse] on patrol—so I asked him, “Christian, what kind of people are firefighters?” He said that there were all kinds of firefighters—lawyers, doctors, college professors—but that there was one thing they all had in common: They were all carpenters. My husband, God bless him, couldn’t put a nail in the wall. Nobody in my family was able to fix anything. But Christian was fascinated that they all had these skills, and he learned a lot. But he didn’t have a long time to learn.

  He graduated from the Fire Academy at Manhattan Community College on July 26, 2001. They graduated in the shadow of Ground Zero—six weeks before 9/11.

  When 9/11 came I had no idea where he worked. By that time he had moved out and was living with two other aspiring firefighters in an apartment in Brooklyn. I didn’t know anything about Brooklyn. I only knew that my husband got lost there twice, and he was in the car with the kids going crazy, yelling and screaming. Brooklyn was a foreign country to me. But Christian was falling in love with everything Brooklyn. He used to say, “Oh Mom. It’s very different. It’s all little neighborhoods.” Whatever he did, wherever he went, he put himself into it 100 percent.

  Before 9/11, the last conversation I ever had with my son was about an old, outdated Mac, which was probably already years old when he got it. I said, “Christian, I’m going to buy you a new computer.” And he would never take anything from us. “But there’s one condition, Christian.... I want you to follow your bliss.” I wanted all the members of the family to follow their bliss and to live up to their talents and abilities. He was stunned, because I had never really spoken to him about that. “I want you to do that—follow your bliss.”

  Christian assured me, “Mom, that’s how I’m going to make my money.” That was about a week before the attacks.

  On September 11, 2001, it was primary day. I was a community activist in Co-op City, and there was a mayoral race going on. A couple of months prior, I had become interested in the possible candidacy of an unknown person who was coming on the scene. I was a volunteer, getting people together. I was going to give out the literature, and I was assigning people to be at the different polling places. This hopeful candidate was a guy who people said didn’t have a chance, a little-known candidate named Michael Bloomberg.

  In the morning I was getting ready at home. I’ve always been a newshound, so I was watching the news on my little TV in the kitchen when I saw a breaking news bulletin: Apparently a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I then saw the damage on TV. I kept watching, and as more things emerged I got this apprehension, because I knew that Red Hook was not far over that cursed Brooklyn Bridge. I’m sorry to offend anyone who lives there, but I can’t go to Brooklyn. I can’t go there. I know it’s irrational, but I feel as if Brooklyn allowed my son to be murdered, because he was working there.

  Suddenly I got this foreboding. I never really thought that he would have been sent in there—after all, he was a probie who had just graduated from fire school six weeks before. Then people started calling me. My cousin said, “Oh, Sally, Christian, he would never go in there.” I spoke to so-and-so: He would never be sent in there. That’s not for probies. That’s for seasoned firefighters. Don’t worry about it.

  Christian had had the room with the best view in our apartment. From his window you could see, as clear as day, the skyline of Manhattan, including the World Trade Center. You could see it from the thirtieth floor, and we all often looked out the window and looked at the sky. It was a fabulous and fascinating view.

  So when I heard the news I kept running from this little TV in the kitchen to Christian’s room, and I saw the black smoke, and then came back. Oh, my God, I saw that the building [had] collapsed. First I saw there were two buildings, and then there was only one building there. And the smoke. Then I ran back and was watching the TV when the second building came down. I ran back to the window in Christian’s room, and there were no buildings. The buildings were gone. These were buildings that I had looked at for thirty years. We had lived in Co-op City for thirty years.

  At that time I couldn’t comprehend that my son . . . I thought that he would not have been called there. I co
uld never in my wildest dreams even imagine that something like this could have happened to him. But as the day grew longer and longer, I had this foreboding. I had no information. I knew nothing about the Fire Department. I didn’t know a single firefighter. In hindsight I realized that we had a second cousin on my father’s side of the family, but we were not in touch with him. I didn’t know anything. And everyone was gone that day. I don’t remember where my husband was, but he wasn’t around, and my daughter wasn’t around.

  And the day went on, and the day went on, and the day went on. Then, I don’t know how, but I got the number of Christian’s firehouse. I didn’t know where Red Hook, Brooklyn, was. And I started calling until the day had turned to night. I thought, Christian is macho and self-contained, so the last thing that he ever would do is call his mother. He might have been young, just twenty-eight, but he was a total man, and a marine, and you don’t call your mother. And that’s why I didn’t know a lot about his job, because he wasn’t a momma’s boy. I thought to myself, This is Christian, he’s not calling us, he’s engaged, he’s involved. But then I went from being a little annoyed . . . and fell into a fear that began growing.

  I called the firehouse over and over, and whenever I got through I got every kind of story. They said, Well, they were assigned to different places, and they were reassigned, and they didn’t know. This is this, this is that. They kept on telling me stories, and I started getting more and more anxious. By the time it was night they had brought in these retired firefighters, and I got an older guy, and I said, “You have to tell me, where is my son?” And finally, you could tell, in desperation, you could tell he was jaded, he was burned out, and he said to me the words I will never forget, the words I would never want anyone to ever hear. He said to me: “He is unaccounted for.”