Never Forget Means Something to Me

My uncle Carl Bedigian was killed in the September 11th attacks while saving lives in the South Tower. He was a member of FDNY Engine 214, Ladder 111 out of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. I was four months old when he passed.

Carl and my aunt Michelle—who I call Tía—didn’t have kids together. At the time, Carl didn’t want them. But there’s a story that’s been passed down in our family that says a lot about who he was.

One day, my mom and Tía went shopping and left Carl home with me. As infants tend to do, I soiled my diaper. Carl stepped up, cleaned me up, and changed it himself. When my mom and Tía got back, he lifted me up proudly to show off his work. The only problem? The diaper was on backwards.

Tía always says that was the day his heart changed about having kids.

September 11th has been a heavy and important day in my life for as long as I can remember. Every year growing up, I’d be taken out of school to attend a memorial service at the firehouse, followed by breakfast at Bayside Diner. Even in college, when I was rarely home sick, 9/11 was one of the few days I always came back for.

This year, I had the opportunity to work the Never Forget Tribute Classic at Prudential Center, featuring Houston vs. Arkansas. Instead of wearing the event hoodie, I asked if I could wear a quarter zip representing Carl’s firehouse—with the shield placed over my heart. They said yes.

That night, in a quiet way, I felt like he was with me.

I often wonder what it would’ve been like to sit down and talk with Carl. But in many ways, I feel like I already know him—his bravery, his heart, his humor.

I’ll just leave the diaper changing to someone else.