'Dad's missing.' Two words that shape my 9/11 memories as I watched the towers burn

On that darkest of nights, David Ng was the assistant managing editor at The Star-Ledger working on the edition about the darkest of days.

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On that darkest of nights, I was the assistant managing editor at The Star-Ledger working on the edition about the darkest of days.  In the middle of the chaos, my sister called.  First, she wanted to know if my family was okay.  From the hill near our Staten Island home, we could see the towers on fire like two smoldering candles.  We’re fine, I said.  The daughter and the baby were home with their mother.  I got past the roadblocks and into the newsroom. My sister then asked if I, as a journalist, had access to a secret list of the missing, injured or dead.  Barely 12 hours had passed the attack. Ground Zero was still burning.  The early death toll was estimated to be as high as 10,000.  That night, the nation was bracing for a second wave of terror. The skies were empty but for jet fighters prepared to shoot down unresponsive aircrafts.  No, sis, I don’t have a secret list.  I’m on deadline. Kinda busy now, you know.  Why are you asking?

“Dad’s missing,” she said.

David Ng's father, Ng Chong Hing, with David as a baby.
David Ng's father, Ng Chong Hing, with David as a baby. Courtesy of David Ng

My father lived blocks away from the towers.  Literally, depending on the time of the day and season, the shadow of the behemoths fell on his street.  Sis said she spoke to him on his cell phone shortly after the first plane hit.  But lost contact with him after that. 

That morning, I had the day all planned. Drop off my six-year-old, Isla Clare, at school and take the baby, Esme Maria, in for her pediatrician’s visit. Sneak in some tennis, shower and get to work at the newspaper.

Then terror struck at 8:45 a.m.

We were driving on Victory Boulevard in Staten Island in New York City, heading down a hill with Esme Maria strapped into her car seat like a newborn astronaut. “What’s that?” my wife said.

David Ng
From the top of Victory,  I could see a plume of smoke drifting east. I turned on the radio. The green LED light read 8:57.  The radio reporter rapid-fired the news flash. And on a street dedicated to honor the end of one war,  the war to end all wars, I watched a new war begin.

Victory Boulevard runs the length of the Island and, from its highest peak, you can see Lower Manhattan five miles across the harbor. The street originally was called the Richmond Turnpike, but it was renamed Victory Boulevard after the allies won World War I.  From the top of Victory,  I could see a plume of smoke drifting east. I turned on the radio. The green LED light read 8:57.  The radio reporter rapid-fired the news flash. And on a street dedicated to honor the end of one war,  the war to end all wars, I watched a new war begin.  

As the nation pauses to remember the honored dead from that day two decades ago, the thousands lost in the ensuing war, those dead or dying today from a cancer caused by Ground Zero pollutants, there are so many stories that we should preserve and commit to heart, soul and memory.

We all remember 9/11 in our own way.  This is, in part, how I remember, not just that one day, but the 20 years since then:

Charles Kasper, a revered figure in the Fire Department of New York.
Charles Kasper, a revered figure in the Fire Department of New York. AP

I used to play tennis with Charlie Kasper, a deputy chief with Fire Department of New York, on the public tennis courts near my house.  Charlie was a local legend among New York’s firefighters. He was the gentle veteran revered by the fresh-faced newbies.  On that day, he was home when the alarm sounded and he rushed to a local fire house and commandeered a rig and rushed into Manhattan with about 14 of his FDNY brothers. Only one man on that truck survived the day. It wasn’t Charlie. To this day, during the mournful reading of the names, I pause and turn up the volume on the TV set when they get to the “K’s.”  Of the approximately 350 firefighters who died on 9/11, nearly 80 lived on Staten Island. Now, in the borough that is my former home, scores of streets carry two signs, one for the legal name of the street. The other is, in memoriam,  for a firefighter.  And on the corner of those tennis courts, there's a sign in honor of Charlie. 

David Ng
Charlie was a local legend among New York’s firefighters. He was the gentle veteran revered by the fresh-faced newbies.  On that day, he was home when the alarm sounded and he rushed to a local fire house and commandeered a rig and rushed into Manhattan with about 14 of his FDNY brothers. Only one man on that truck survived the day.

On September 12, nearly 40 children in New Jersey woke up orphans. Both mom and dad worked in the towers. That was among the most tragic of stories that I helped edit in the aftermath.  The youngest of them now would be in their early 20s, the same as my Esme Maria. The oldest would be in their late 30s.  I don’t remember their names.  I’m sure they don’t resemble the photos we had at the time.  Still, at this time of the year during these heart-breaking anniversaries, I think of that generation of 9/11 orphans and hope they're okay.  

My friend, David Handschuh, a news photographer for the Daily News, nearly lost his life that day.  He tried to outrun the tsunami of falling debris when shrapnel from the towers shattered one leg and damaged the other, and he fell onto the street, smothered in charred grey dust. But rescuers dug him out of the debris and dragged him inside a deli. 

Providence Journal page one on Sept. 12, 2001
Providence Journal page one on Sept. 12, 2001 Journal files

Within seconds, the sunlight coming through the glass front of the shop turned pitch black. David and I have often spoke about how 9/11 altered the trajectory of our careers and our lives.  Earlier this year when I was named the executive editor of The Journal, I asked my friend-for-life to shoot the official photographs for the announcement.   

As for my dad, my sister found him, exhausted and weary, three days later in a makeshift shelter near Midtown. He, like the tens of thousands of people who lived in lower Manhattan, were evacuated on a split second’s notice and housed wherever you could plunk down a cot. His cell phone didn’t work because there was no service. There was no service because there were no transmitters. And there were no transmitters because there were no longer any towers.

Photo of David Ng's sister,  Grace Ng.
Photo of David Ng's sister, Grace Ng. Courtesy of David Ng

In 20 years, it’s only been recently that I shared this story about my father.  I really don’t know why I kept the story to myself.  I wonder if it’s because of a son’s guilt that I didn’t abandon my desk to look for him.  (I didn’t even tell my editors that night.)  Or, deep down, alive, missing or dead, I knew that there was nothing to do except wait.  Also, what was my family’s temporary anguish compared to other’s lifetimes of grief.

Just as we all remember 9/11 in our own way, we all also have come to grips with 9/11 on our own terms.  It's been 20 years.  I often wonder if I have, or if I ever will. 

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