I was born and raised in New York City. My story is not one of heroism just of what I experienced as a New Yorker and how my life has changed.

I clearly remember waking up and thinking, “I do not want to go to work”. There was a warm breeze coming through the open window and I could think of a million other things I could be doing. However, it was primary day in the city and I had a meeting on Randall’s Island, so playing hooky was not an option.

During the meeting someone came in and told us a plane had crashed into the Trade Center. The group paused and collectively didn’t think much of it. We all seemed to think it was a Cessna or small plane. That same person brought a radio in and we tried to listen to the goings on during the meeting. Moments later, the meeting was interrupted, this time telling us a second plane hit the towers. It was then realized something was wrong. The group proceeded to the roof of the building. The building’s roof provided a good vantage point, looking west toward lower Manhattan from the East River. It also was a few feet away from the Tri-Boro, which connects upper Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx bridge toll booths. In the time it took to get on the roof, less than five minutes, the bridge was already clogged with emergency response vehicles from all over the city. The cacophony of their sirens highlighted the seriousness of what was unfolding. From the roof we could also see the smoke billowing south from the mighty towers.

Someone had started a rumor that terrorist were going to bomb Randall’s Island and the building we were in had to be locked down. At this point I decided I had to get back to the Bronx and see what I could do to help or what my orders would be. Driving back to the Bronx over the Bruckner Expressway, I could see some emergency vehicles driving into the city and the towers in my rearview mirror. When I arrived at Bronx Parks Headquarters, I was told by the chief of operations, to report to Van Cortland of the park’s gas stations and only allow emergency vehicles to gas up. I was also told a bomb had gone off at the Supreme Court in D.C.

I quickly drove to Van Cortland Park on the west side of the Bronx, which is near my apartment, about 15 miles north from the World Trade Center. Also driving west on the Mosholu Parkway, were police officers and firefighters in their personal vehicles. They were driving at very high rates of speed and honking the horns towards the Henry Hudson Parkway, down the West Side Highway and ultimately to the Trade Center. On the way to the park from the central Bronx to the west Bronx, I stopped to check on my girlfriend, (now my wife) who was a teacher at PS 56 in the Bronx.

She said parents were coming in and taking their kids out of school. Later we learned some of her student’s parents worked at the Trade Center as janitors and cleaners, and never made it home to pick up their children from school.

The rest of September 11 was spent “guarding” the city gas pumps, listening to the radio and the combat aircraft enforcing the “no fly zone” around the city.

That night at home was spent watching the news.

Each morning for the next week or so, we were waking up with bags under our eyes. Our sleep was not restful. It was anxious not knowing what was coming next. Small memorials with candles and flowers began to appear on random street corners. People, strangers and neighbors never spoken to, would stop each other in the street and ask, “How you doing?” A different feeling came over the city.

Each day I would report to the Parks and Recreation, Maintenance and Operation garage in Bronx Park, waiting to be called to help at Ground Zero. We had heavy equipment and able body people ready to help wanting to help and no one called.

When I was not able to help, being raised since a boy by my grandfather, a World War II veteran, who voluntarily raised and lowered the flag at a monument in our neighborhood and was heavily involved with the American Legion, who instilled that community service is important, it really upset me. I decided from that moment on that I would be in a position to help, to serve. July 2002, I entered the New York City Police Academy, the first class after the department lost 23 of their own on that day, to serve and protect my city as a police recruit. In January 2003, I graduated with 2500 recruits at Madison Square Garden, I never felt such pride.

I joined CBP with the same thought in mind, how can I best help protect my country

and city? Throughout my career, I have volunteered to work on pro-active teams whose primary mission is the fight against terror. On counter-terrorism response teams and the anti-terrorism response teams, I fight the terror I felt that day -- everyday always thinking: Never again and never forget.

It is something different being in New York City that day, being a New Yorker, an American. The towers were part of the collective psyche of the city. They were always there. The towers provided the livelihood for so many people I grew up with. Provided the mortgage or paid the school tuition for their children.

The slogan that comes to mind that was prevalent throughout the city after 9/11 was: “All gave some. Some gave all.” No truer words were written.