By Jim Giaccone
“This can’t be happening on such a beautiful day.” When I think about that statement now, it seems pretty illogical. But that’s exactly what I was thinking on September 11th, 2001. You see, my big brother Joe, Joseph Michael Giaccone, had an office on the 103rd floor in the North Tower where he worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. At 8:46 in the morning, my brother Joe disappeared into thin air. He was only 43. Gone. And my whole family was changed forever.
At first, it was the overwhelming sadness, then it was the anger, then it was the sense of total helplessness. I tried keeping busy with my own family, new work ventures, really anything that kept me moving. I felt the need to never stop moving, never rest. That somehow, if I did, the horror of the past would overtake me. It was years before I realized I couldn’t keep up this facade. My emotional fog was starting to thin out and I felt the need to do something more meaningful—something meaningful to honor Joe. I started to think of different ways of keeping his memory alive. I thought about organizing a golf outing or fundraisers but they didn’t seem to be enough. These options didn’t go deep enough for me.
Then I came upon a group called Tuesday’s Children. They were formed in the days after 9/11 and their first immediate goal was to be a support network for the over 3,000 children that lost a mother or father on that day. They started developing programs to help the entire family. The program that resonated with me was their Youth Mentoring Program. They were matching mentors with kids who lost their mom or dad. My thought was that, if I spent time with a young boy and did the things Joe and I loved to do together, in a small way I would be sharing my brother with him.
After training and an extensive background check, I was matched with an 8-year-old boy (the minimum age to be a mentee), Nicholas, who was 2 ½ years old when his dad, Gregory Reda, was killed. His father, who was 33 on September 11th, worked for Marsh and McLennan and, like my brother, his office had been in the North Tower.
Nicholas—a skinny, dark haired, brown-eyed boy—looked at me a little warily at first. We took baby steps, playing with LEGOs or kicking the soccer ball in his backyard. We then started going out bowling, to hockey games, or I’d practice baseball with him. When his younger brother, Mathew, turned 8, Tuesday’s Children began looking for a mentor for him. After a short while, their mom, Nicole, asked me if it would be ok if Mathew joined Nick and me. I figured “why not?” It just seemed natural. Mathew was just two months old on September 11th.
Now, after many years spent with the boys, my wife often says we get along so well because we’re all the same maturity level. They love to build things—we’ve made birdhouses, built rockets and fired them off, and our best project to date is a functioning hovercraft (made from a leaf blower, plywood and my wife’s beach chair)! But, without a doubt, the most important thing we do is spend time together. A friend of mine referred to that time as the “ministry of presence.” This February, Nick and I will mark our tenth year together.
This journey started as a way to honor my brother and keep his spirit alive, and in many immeasurable ways I believe that’s happening. But something unexpected happened. I discovered the therapeutic value of volunteering. One can only imagine that it’s sometimes stressful to coordinate and dedicate a block of time to be with the boys, but every time I drive away from their house, I feel a tremendous sense of calm… like I don’t need to run anymore.
I have great memories of my brother, my dad and me watching NASCAR on Sunday afternoons. Ironically, one of the last times I saw Joe was at Nazareth Speedway where I had organized a group to do a Richard Petty driving experience.
Being chosen as a BJFHA finalist is not something I had ever envisioned when I began volunteering. I’m humbled and honored, and the attention is a little embarrassing. The VIP event NASCAR treated me to at Watkins Glen is a weekend I will never forget. Everybody, from the drivers to the fans, treated me like royalty. I can’t say thank you enough to my NASCAR family.
