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Dan Kennedy
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy and this year marks the 16 year anniversary of September 11th. To remember the families and friends that were forever impacted by that day, we're going to listen to their stories today on the podcast. We met Jim Giacconi through the 911 Tribute Museum back in 2013, and back then he held his story closely. Wasn't sure if he wanted to share it or if he'd ever really be ready to share it. But we're glad and we're honored that he decided to. And he did so in front of a live Moth audience right here in New York City. Here's Jim Giacconi.
Jim Giacconi
I frequently find myself in the company of other family members like myself, family members who lost a loved one on September 11, 2001. You see, that morning, my big brother Joe went to work early. He worked on the 103rd floor of the North Tower for Cantor Fitzgerald. And at 8:46 in the morning, Joe disappeared into thin air. It's within conversations with these other family members that they'll sometimes mention the fact that they had a sign, a butterfly, a rainbow, even a series of events that they pieced together themselves to convince themselves that they were in the presence of their loved one or working the work, watching the workings of their loved one. And I would always smile, politely, nod my head in acknowledgement that they were speaking to me. But in my mind, honestly, I was rolling my eyes. I'm a very pragmatic, logical, methodical thinker. I need proof. Even within my plumbing profession, we think of a problem in a ladder pattern and we don't reach for the next rung until we have the answer to the first. I'm also somebody that was haunted by a horrible reoccurring nightmare that began shortly after September 11th. It would always begin with me standing at the base of a mountain looking up. In front of me was a wide swath of a path. The path was all stone, rocks, outcroppings. On the right side was a definitive line of trees. On the left side, the same on these outcroppings were these creatures. They were dog like vicious, horrible, dark creatures, and they scared the hell out of me. Even when I looked at them, everything would turn dark. They were vicious. They would, snarling, snap at the air. I would see the mist from their breath. And at the top of the mountain was my brother Joe. And he never said a word. And without fail, somewhere along my climb, I would slip and helplessly slide into the grasp of one of these creatures. And for some reason, I gave a green light to all the other creatures to set upon me. And I would awaken as they were tearing at me. I would sometimes awaken hearing a voice or a scream. And as I became more awake, I would realize it was my own. I'd usually be sitting up, covered in sweat, scared, where I couldn't even formulate a word. Then I'd be confused, then I'd get angry, and then I'd become depressed. In 2006, I was approached by a group called Tuesday's Children. It's a group that was formed in the days after September 11th. And I'm very active with them. And they wanted to know if I was interested in going on a Colorado Outward bound adventure with other family members. And I jumped at the chance. I was always an outdoors person, loved the nature. And that August, we all made our way to Leadsville, Colorado, the highest incorporated city in the nation, over two miles up into the air. And we spent the first two days getting acclimated to camp life, to each other, and especially the altitude. And on the third day, we packed up and we began our trek into the deep woods. And almost immediately, we came upon a river. And there was an older gentleman fly fishing. And even though I told him I had no fishing gear, he still insisted on giving me a fishing fly. And he said, this will work in these waters. And I shrugged my shoulders and thanked him for his gift. And we continued our hike. And that hike was what I consider one of my life's beautiful moments. Beautiful moment, to me, is defined by when your brain is consciously aware of what you're doing or what you're seeing is inside, inexplicable way, extra special. And you will remember that. It's as if your brain makes a wrinkle for that memory, and it'll never go away. And we continued hiking. It was after lunch, and we were hiking along a stream, and we came upon a huge log jam that made a natural bridge over the stream. And we used that to get ourselves and our gear over. And we climbed up a small embankment through a small clearing into the woods a short distance, and we set up another base camp that was going to be our home for the next few days. And little Jimmy got a long, flexible stick, got my 12 yards of dental floss and my new gift of the fishing fly. And I was going to go back to that stream, and I was going to catch some fresh dinner. And when I came out of the woods into the clearing now, I was facing that log jam again. But from this vantage point, I could see what was beyond that log jam. It was a huge, steep mountain. It had a huge, wide swath of a path cut from the bottom to the top. There was a definitive line of trees on the right, a definitive line of trees on the left. I immediately became frozen because I knew this was the mountain in my nightmare. This was Joe's mountain. I wanted to call out to the others, but I had never told anybody but my wife about this nightmare, so I didn't say a word. In fact, a short time after September 11, when I would speak of my brother Joe to even my closest friends, I would see them become physically uncomfortable. And so to save their discomfort, I stopped talking about my brother. That night, after dinner, we built a campfire. And you could probably imagine there was a. With all those brokenhearted people. There was a lot of emotional Kumbaya moments around that campfire. There was a lot of crying, there was a lot of anger. When it was my turn to speak, I told the others about my nightmare. And that's when we learned from the guide that that was one of the mountains we were scheduled to climb that very next morning. We put on our day packs and we set out at dawn. And it was a crisp, clear, beautiful morning. And we hiked for hours. And we got about halfway up when I have what I consider to be a complete breakdown. For some reason, I went from crying to wailing to dropping on my knees, making guttural sounds I had never made before. The others with me were great. They hugged me, they cried with me, and together we got to the top of that mountain. And let me tell you, the top of the mountain was absolutely glorious. It was spectacular. On the top of that mountain, we found a pickle jar that somebody had left up there with folded up notes inside of it. I found a pen and paper and I wrote down my thoughts and prayers to my brother Joe. One thing I will tell you is that I wrote that I would never let him be forgotten. You know, reliving this nightmare for you, the nightmare that I was asleep for, and especially the one I was awake for, is uncomfortable. But something more I hope happens if you all remember my story, even if you remember my nightmare, you will learn a small way. Remember my brother Joe, and maybe, maybe I'll create a little wrinkle in your brains tonight for Joseph M. Giacconi. And he will not have vanished into thin air, as you might have guessed. After that, I never had that nightmare again. On that mountain that day, I found my proof. Thank you very much.
Dan Kennedy
That was Jim Giaconi. Jim lives in Bayville, New York, and owns a small plumbing contracting business. But for the past 10 years, he's been a mentor with Tuesday's children to two young brothers who lost their father on 9 11. Jim also spends his time volunteering and leading tours at the 911 Tribute Museum. His brother, Joe Giacone, worked on the 103rd floor of the North Tower. He was 43 years old and left behind a wife and two children. We want to thank Jim for sharing his story with us at the Moth. We also want to thank all of you for listening. Be kind to each other and have a Good week.
Sponsor Representative
Dan Kennedy is the author of the books Loser Goes First, Rock on An American Spirit. He's also a regular host and performer.
Dan Kennedy
With the Moth Podcast, production by Timothy Lou Lee. The Moth Podcast is presented by prx, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.
Jim Giacconi
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Summary of "Jim Giaccone: Memories, Monsters, Mountaintops" – The Moth Podcast
Introduction
In the poignant episode titled "Jim Giaccone: Memories, Monsters, Mountaintops," featured on The Moth podcast, listener Jim Giaccone shares his deeply personal journey of grief, nightmares, and eventual healing following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. Hosted by Dan Kennedy, this story commemorates the 16th anniversary of 9/11, honoring the memories of those lost and the enduring impact on their families.
Background: A Day Forever Changed
Jim Giaccone begins by recounting the harrowing loss of his older brother, Joe Giaccone, who was working on the 103rd floor of the North Tower for Cantor Fitzgerald on the morning of September 11, 2001. At 8:46 AM, Joe disappeared during the terrorist attacks, an event that forever altered Jim’s life and left him grappling with intense grief.
“You see, that morning, my big brother Joe went to work early... and at 8:46 in the morning, Joe disappeared into thin air.” (02:54)
Struggling with Acceptance and Seeking Proof
As Jim navigates his grief, he often finds himself in conversations with other family members who share their own experiences and signs they believe signify the presence of their lost loved ones. However, Jim's pragmatic and logical nature leads him to seek tangible proof, making it difficult for him to find solace in symbolic gestures or personal interpretations.
“I'm a very pragmatic, logical, methodical thinker. I need proof.” (04:10)
Haunted by Nightmares
Shortly after the tragedy, Jim began experiencing a recurring nightmare that vividly symbolizes his fear and loss. In his dream, he stands at the base of a daunting mountain with a treacherous path flanked by dark, menacing creatures. At the summit stands his brother Joe, silent and unreachable. The nightmare culminates in Jim being overtaken by the creatures, leaving him in a state of fear and helplessness.
“There was a wide swath of a path... On the left side, on these outcroppings were these creatures. They were dog-like, vicious, horrible, dark creatures... at the top of the mountain was my brother Joe.” (05:15)
Joining Tuesday's Children: A Step Toward Healing
In 2006, Jim was approached by Tuesday's Children, a support group formed in the aftermath of 9/11. Seeking connection and healing, he eagerly joined an Outward Bound adventure in Leadville, Colorado. This expedition was designed to help families like his bond through shared outdoor challenges and experiences.
“I was always an outdoors person, loved the nature... We spent the first two days getting acclimated to camp life, to each other, and especially the altitude.” (07:30)
The Colorado Trek: Confronting the Nightmare
During the hike, Jim encountered several memorable moments that underscored the significance of his journey. One such instance was meeting an older gentleman fly fishing who gifted him a fishing fly, symbolizing unexpected kindness amidst hardship.
However, the pivotal moment came on the third day when Jim recognized the mountain from his nightmare within the Colorado wilderness. Standing before it, he realized that this was the very representation of his subconscious fears and the unresolved grief he carried.
“I immediately became frozen because I knew this was the mountain in my nightmare. This was Joe's mountain.” (10:05)
An Emotional Breakdown and Collective Support
The emotional intensity peaked as Jim led his group up the mountain. Overwhelmed by his emotions, he experienced a breakdown midway through the climb—crying, wailing, and falling to his knees. The support from fellow hikers was profound, providing the necessary comfort and solidarity to help him reach the summit.
“For some reason, I went from crying to wailing to dropping on my knees, making guttural sounds I had never made before.” (11:20)
Reaching the Summit: Finding Closure
Upon reaching the top, Jim was greeted by a breathtaking view and discovered a pickle jar filled with folded notes left by others who had visited before him. Inspired, he wrote his own message, committing to never let his brother be forgotten. This act of writing became a symbolic gesture of remembrance and acceptance, marking the end of his recurring nightmare.
“One thing I will tell you is that I wrote that I would never let him be forgotten... After that, I never had that nightmare again.” (11:55)
Conclusion: A Journey of Healing and Memory
Jim Giaccone's story is a testament to the profound ways in which individuals process grief and find paths to healing. Through confronting his nightmares and embracing the support of a community, Jim was able to honor his brother's memory and transform his pain into a lasting tribute.
“Remember my brother Joe... Joseph M. Giacconi. And he will not have vanished into thin air.” (12:20)
Jim continues to honor his brother by mentoring young families affected by 9/11 and volunteering at the 911 Tribute Museum. His journey illustrates the enduring power of shared experiences and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable loss.
Impact and Legacy
Jim's narrative not only serves as a personal healing journey but also offers hope and inspiration to others grappling with similar tragedies. By sharing his story, Jim contributes to the collective memory of 9/11, ensuring that Joe's legacy lives on and that others may find solace in their own paths to recovery.
Final Thoughts
Through "Memories, Monsters, Mountaintops," Jim Giaccone provides a powerful account of loss, fear, and ultimately, healing. His ability to transform a recurring nightmare into a symbol of remembrance and acceptance underscores the profound capacity for human resilience and the importance of community support in overcoming personal tragedies.
“If you all remember my story, even if you remember my nightmare, you will learn a small way. Remember my brother Joe...” (12:15)
This episode of The Moth not only honors a brother's memory but also celebrates the strength found in shared human experiences and the enduring bonds of family.