Wake-Up Call: The Political Education of a 9/11 Widow by Kristen Breitweiser | NOOK Book (eBook) | Barnes & Noble
Wake-Up Call: The Political Education of a 9/11 Widow

Wake-Up Call: The Political Education of a 9/11 Widow

4.6 10
by Kristen Breitweiser
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

Kristen Breitweiser was a happy young mother and housewife leading a privileged life. Then, on the morning of September 11th, 2001, the phone rang. It was her husband, Ron, calling from his office in the second tower.
"Sweets, I'm ok. I'm ok. Don't worry. It's not my building," he said.
Kristen didn't know what he was saying. He told her to turn on the

Overview

Kristen Breitweiser was a happy young mother and housewife leading a privileged life. Then, on the morning of September 11th, 2001, the phone rang. It was her husband, Ron, calling from his office in the second tower.
"Sweets, I'm ok. I'm ok. Don't worry. It's not my building," he said.
Kristen didn't know what he was saying. He told her to turn on the television. He continued.
"I see them. They're right there. Right across from me. And they're jumping. My God, they're jumping."
The call ended abruptly and Kristen watched with horror as the second tower exploded. A huge, brilliant, red fireball. In that frozen instant, she felt in her heart that he had been killed.
This is the deeply personal, often shocking and ultimately inspirational story of a woman left to pick up the pieces of a life shattered by terrorism. With no husband by her side or father for her child, Kristen had to find the strength within herself to embark on a journey that would lead first to the creation of the 9/11 Commission and then to her role as one of the country's most outspoken activists and critics of the current administration.

Editorial Reviews

"Sweets, I'm okay; I'm okay. Don't worry. It's not my building." Kristen Breitweiser's last call from husband in the World Trade Center ended abruptly, snapping the continuity of her life forever. By increments, the privileged stay-at-home mom became first an advocate of the 9/11 Commission and then one of the country's most outspoken activists. As one of the "Jersey Girls," this former Republican continues to question public policy about national security.
Publishers Weekly
In September of 2001, Breitweiser had a tumor in her breast, was suffering from colitis and lupus and recovering from the death of her mother from cancer of the mouth. Then terrorists crashed into the World Trade Center, killing her beloved husband and hundreds more. Devastated, the New Jersey stay-at-home mom became an activist, channeling her pain and rage into learning everything she could about the U.S. government's role in the attacks-an excruciating journey that is carefully chronicled in this emotionally charged memoir. Colloquial in tone, Breitweiser recounts how she and three widow pals-her fellow "Jersey Girls"-began lobbying the government to establish an independent 9/11 commission to explore all that went wrong that day. With narrative ease, the author, who has a law degree, breaks down complex arguments and political theories: one chapter is dedicated to a single footnote from The 9/11 Investigations, while another segment explains why negligence is cheaper than prevention for airlines and governments. But in episodes where she mouths off to Henry Kissinger and campaigns for the "awkward" John Kerry, her frustration palpably grows. Though not the most elegant storyteller, Breitweiser has produced a touching account of her history and ongoing mission that's bound to achieve prominence thanks to Ann Coulter's recnt attacks on the author. (Sept.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Eye-opening memoir by the spouse of a 9/11 victim. The near-miss courtship of Kristen and Ron Breitweiser was anything but a fairy tale. Seton Hall law student Kristen initially believed Ron to be a boozy stalker and spurned his advances. But he was exceptionally persistent and eventually proved himself to be a romantic husband and a proud father. Daughter Caroline was born a year after the death, from cancer, of Kristen's mother, and the author herself was diagnosed with a breast tumor just prior to September 11. Breitweiser's devastation over the loss of her husband-he died at the World Trade Center-quickly morphed into vengeful frustration with the "bureaucracy of death." Incapacitated for a time by grief and paranoia, she eventually began attending Victims' Rights meetings, where she was befriended and ultimately empowered by three other widows, all seeking answers from double-talking government agencies. She was disgusted by the manipulative machinations of the Victims' Compensation Fund, which the author believes set a precedent for "assigning a finite value for the pain and suffering of any victim" that encouraged airlines and corporations "to conduct a very cold calculation. . . . Is it cheaper to overhaul our product to make it safer for the public at large or is it just cheaper to pay for the dead and injured?" Just over a year after the tragedy, the author fired up her "Widowmobile," headed to Washington and spoke before the Joint Intelligence Committee of Congress, arguing for the formation of an independent 9/11 Commission to investigate the nation's intelligence failures. Illuminated by the media spotlight, Breitweiser's plight got its due, but questions remained unanswered.Among the grim moments that drive home the burdens survivors bear, the author describes the painful disposal of her New Jersey home's contents (including her dead husband's clothes) and the medical examiner's overdue delivery of Ron's right arm. Valiant and heartbreaking.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780759568327
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Publication date:
09/06/2006
Sold by:
Hachette Digital, Inc.
Format:
NOOK Book
Sales rank:
901,685
File size:
485 KB

Read an Excerpt

Wake-Up Call

The Political Education of a 9/11 Widow
By Kristen Breitweiser

WARNER BOOKS

Copyright © 2006 Kristen Breitweiser
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-446-57932-7


Chapter One

A Love Affair That Almost Never Happened

AS RON TOLD IT, he first saw me in 1994 while I was playing beach volleyball at the Jersey Shore. He said he'd had his eye on me from that very instant. I, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to his presence. In those early days, I wouldn't have paid much attention to him because he simply was not my type. Blond, strong, and blue-eyed, Ron was the straitlaced, wholesome all-American guy-a Fourth of July parade, complete with bursting fireworks.

That same summer, I was hanging out with a close-knit group of friends and we had a regular routine. Our summer life revolved around sunbathing, playing beach volleyball, surfing, and partying. We would religiously arrive at the beach by 10:00 A.M., eat breakfast, which usually included ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches and cheese fries, apply our sunblock, line up the volleyball schedule, and gossip about the parties that had taken place the night before. Sometime around five o'clock, the mass exodus from the shoreline would begin. Everyone would filter slowly off the beach, drop their beach chairs on the front lawn of the small beach barcalled the Yankee Clipper, and walk inside barefoot to grab a plate of nachos and a few Long Island iced teas. Everybody knew everybody else. It was a small, exclusive club of friends. Everyone was tanned, gorgeous, and looking to have fun.

The Yankee Clipper was an institution. You could feel the gritty floor underfoot-a combination of dropped peanut shells, spilled alcohol, and vagrant sand. The bar smelled like cocoa butter and suntan lotion. The music was always the same-cheesy, upbeat, and happy. When songs like "Rockin' Robin," "Sweet Caroline," or "Margaritaville" were played, everybody drunkenly chimed in. Arms were wrapped around waists of the people standing next to you. Haphazard conga lines would form. And every evening would end with the same last song: "The Summer Wind" by Frank Sinatra.

Around 11:00 P.M. what we called "the crawl" would begin. The crawl was the long walk either home, to the next bar, or to a private party at someone's beachfront home. Buzzed, sunburned, and feeling the cool ocean breeze on our faces, we would stumble along still barefoot, covered in sand, and wearing our bathing suits. There were no fancy outfits, no designer handbags, and nobody spent time primping and fussing with their hair. Baseball caps, cut-off shorts, and wrinkled linen shirts were all we needed for our three-month "come as you are party."

It was the summer after my first year in law school, right before I was leaving for Europe, when I first met Ron. I was drinking with a group of friends at the Yankee Clipper, and each time one of my friends or I finished a drink, the waitress appeared with another. And another. And another. As the evening wore on, so did the mystery as to who was sending over all of our drinks. The waitress soon began bringing over trays of shots and handing them to everyone. She continued to bring tray after tray after tray. It was verging on the ridiculous. Finally I asked who was sending over the drinks. She told me she was sworn to secrecy, but that our mysterious benefactor was in the bar and an admirer of mine. I was spooked, uncomfortable, and, frankly, wanted to leave immediately. My friends were intrigued and insisted that we stay-in truth, they were just enjoying all the free drinks.

Sometime after midnight, a very inebriated guy showed up with a tray of drinks. He knocked into me, nearly spilling the entire tray. He was pretty drunk. I looked at him, annoyed, and asked him if I could help him out with anything. He righted himself, looked me straight in the eye, and stammered: "I just want you to know I love you." Ron Breitweiser had spoken his first words to me. He was drunk, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was barely standing. All I wanted to do was to get away from him.

Nervously I looked over to the waitress, who pointed to him knowingly. I looked back at Ron as he stumbled some more and asked, "Will you go out on a date with me?" Quite put off by his forwardness and his drunkenness, I brushed him off by saying that I was leaving for Europe the next day, not to return until the end of the summer. I then turned to my friend Paul and asked him to walk me to my car. My only hope was that the crazy drunk guy (I still didn't know his name) would think I was dating Paul and leave me alone. Paul smiled at me, whispered into my ear, draped his arm around my waist, and ushered me out of the bar. The next afternoon I got on the plane and flew to the south of France to study law.

Deciding to take a summer abroad and study in Aix-en-Provence was one of my better law school decisions. It lightened my load for the following semester back at Seton Hall, and it provided me with an excellent opportunity to travel throughout Europe. Ironically, among the classes I took that summer was "Terrorism and International Law." It wasn't anything I was drawn to; it just happened to fit into my schedule. Since we had classes only three days a week, there was plenty of time to take off and travel. I spent the rest of my summer biking around Provence, rock-climbing and glacier skiing in Switzerland, hiking in the French Alps, swimming along the coasts of the Italian and French Mediterranean, and partying all night long before the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

Returning home, I started my second year of law school. It was rigorous, but I always liked the challenge of being a student with a goal to achieve. I wasn't sure I wanted to be a lawyer-as an undergraduate I'd been drawn to the sciences and dreamed about being an astrophysicist or even a neurosurgeon. But the many years of training and medical residencies that a medical degree required made me feel restless and impatient. Law school felt like a smarter and much more practical choice. Besides that, I liked the idea of having three more years of educational structure-I knew it would give me more time to grow up before having to settle down and get a real job.

It was the fall of my second year in law school when Ron's and my paths crossed again. I'd been partying with my law school friends in Hoboken, New Jersey, and we decided to spend the rest of the night clubbing in Manhattan. Ron was a few years older than I, and he was already working on Wall Street. According to Ron, who told me the story of our encounter afterwards, it was on this night that he saw me stumbling through the PATH station with my law school pals. When he told me the story, I didn't believe him until he described what I was wearing and the people I was with. Once reminded of the occasion, I did recall the random night of partying (but not Ron), because it turned out to be an outrageously fun night and one of the rare occasions when my law school friends and I ventured into Manhattan. When Ron recounted to me how he had seen me that evening it struck me as strange, but more so, it struck me as fate. Now it gives me chills because I think about how serendipitous it was to run into Ron in the subway station of the World Trade Center on a night when I was out partying happily with my friends. If only he had known or I had known or anyone had known that so many years later thousands of people would perish in that very spot.

Six months later, Ron and I crossed paths again, but not by coincidence. He had finagled my phone number from a colleague at the law firm where I was clerking that summer. Ron called up cold-totally out of the blue. He first introduced himself as the guy from the Yankee Clipper who'd told me that he loved me. This immediately spooked me. Annoyed that one of my work colleagues would be so stupid as to give Ron my phone number, I was curt with him on the phone. Ron then began to tell me that he had seen me in the WTC/PATH train station that fall. I began to wonder if this guy was stalking me. Ron then asked about law school and whether I had a boyfriend. Wanting desperately to brush him off at this point, I told him that I had several-which wasn't exactly a lie. Completely undeterred, Ron asked me for a date. I declined. Hanging up the phone, I hoped that would put a stop to the pesky stalker named Ron Breitweiser.

But Ron was persistent. He would periodically call or send flowers. He seemed to pop up constantly wherever I was. I guess his persistence was a survival skill for him. Growing up in a rigidly Catholic family without any advantages, Ron knew that if he was going to make a life different from his parents, he'd have to blaze his own trail. He went to the University of Delaware and majored in business. He didn't get an MBA after college, he got a job. Hard work and perseverance were his ways of competing with those who had the privileges of wealth, class, and Ivy League educations. He got his first job by writing a letter to a man on Wall Street who'd written a book Ron admired. The man invited Ron to lunch, and by the time it was over, Ron had his first job. All he needed was a chance to prove himself.

I had several great guy friends in law school who were like older brothers to me. When Ron's persistence about dating me became an annoyance during the winter of my third year of school, I asked the boys what I should do. "Go out with him. Chain-smoke, suck down straight vodka, and act obnoxious." The boys assured me that the only way I was going to get rid of the "stalker" was to scare him away. Armed with my new strategy, I accepted the next time Ron asked me out.

We went to dinner at a crusty Irish pub named Harrigan's. When the waitress came to take our order, I told Ron I didn't eat and hoped he wouldn't mind if I continued to smoke. Ron was a militant antismoker. He was disgusted with my constant inhaling, and he didn't hide his utter disdain. I felt like my plan was working. I ordered another vodka on the rocks with two limes and then another. I lit another cigarette from the one I was about to extinguish. Ron tried to make conversation, but I refused to engage with him at any level. When he asked if I ever wanted to get married, I made it crystal clear to him that I had no interest in ever getting married or having children. Ron ate. I smoked and swilled vodka, playing the part of the ultimate bitch to perfection.

Unbelievably, the next day Ron sent me flowers and called to thank me for accompanying him to dinner. He was more than cordial. I was stunned. I'd expected never to hear from him again. Finally I ended the conversation by thanking him for the flowers and telling him that I was so immersed in my final year of law school that it would be impossible for me to even consider seeing him again. Ron left me alone for a while. I thought my plan had worked.

I graduated from Seton Hall Law School in May of 1996 and immediately began studying for the bar exam. One night at the Parker House, another favorite beach-bar hangout of mine, I was taking a much-needed study break with some of my law school friends. On my way to the ladies' room, I quite literally ran into Ron. I apologized for crashing into him.

As I looked up, I saw his blue eyes looking back at me and his amazingly huge, bright smile. He gushed, "Wow! How are you? Remember me?" I stumbled, took a step backwards, threw a quick smile, and said, "Sure. How are you? Would love to talk, but I'm just leaving." I used the bar exam and the studying I had to do as my excuse for rushing away.

The New Jersey bar exam was four or five weeks away. In the interim, Ron did his detective work and found out the date of the exam. He was hatching another plan. When I returned home after the two-day exam, I found a huge double bouquet of long-stemmed red roses on my doorstep with a note that said: Hope you did well on the bar exam. Ron. For the first time, Ronald Breitweiser had caught me off guard-in a nice way, something that rarely happened to me.

My aunt and my best friend, Paul, came over and saw the enormous bouquet. I asked them what they thought I should do. My aunt said, "Give him a shot." Paul agreed. They looked at me, laughed, and said simultaneously: "He is persistent." I called to see if the florist had Ron's number.

She said Ron was hoping I would call and had told her it was okay to give me his number. I immediately called to thank him for the flowers and he immediately asked me out to dinner. I hesitated. He said, "Come on, you have to. Today is my birthday." It was August 4, 1996.

This time I actually put some effort into getting ready and wore something other than my usual uniform of jeans and a little white T-shirt. When Ron arrived, I was in a short, simple black dress and flat black sandals. He was wearing ripped jeans and a wrinkled blue shirt that looked like it was plucked straight out of the laundry bag. I was incredulous. "This is how you dress to take me out on a date? On your birthday? Are you joking? Couldn't you have at least ironed your shirt?"

Immediately, I decided to change into something more casual. As I was threw on my own pair of ripped Levi's and wrinkled shirt, I was thinking that he was clueless, totally clueless. Ron stayed in the kitchen chatting with my grandmother about working in New York City. She and my aunt told him that he was crazy to work in such a filthy, dangerous place. They asked him why he wanted to work in the city. There was so much crime and it was so stressful. Did he really want to commute every day? The World Trade Center had been bombed three years before, on February 26, 1993. My grandmother asked Ron what he would do if something like that happened in his building. "I'll tell you what I would do. I'd run like hell and get outta there."

We said good-bye to my family and drove to his parents' house, which was about an hour away, to have birthday cake. I should have realized the significance of meeting Ron's family on our first date. But I was oblivious. Ron had told his family, particularly his older sister, a lot about me. So when I walked into their home I felt very much under the microscope and uncomfortable.

We finally left his parents and drove to a quiet Italian restaurant. During dinner, the conversation was playful and easy. Ron confessed to me that he thought I'd been a real bitch the first time we went out. I said that I had been trying to make him leave me alone. He smiled broadly and beamed, asking, "Aren't you glad I didn't?" I answered him honestly: "Yeah. Actually, I am glad you didn't let me scare you away."

Early the next morning, I stopped at a farm stand and picked out a huge sunflower and placed it in an Evian water bottle. The night before, I'd learned that Ron was training to be in the Golden Gloves, an amateur boxing competition. After the farm stand I stopped at a card store and found a vintage postcard with a photo of a small blond-haired boy with boxing gloves on his hands. On the back of the card I wrote, Thanks for being persistent. I drove over to the beach house Ron had rented for the summer and left the sunflower and the card on his back doorstep. From that moment on, we were inseparable.

Ron was working in the city, and I was living on the Jersey Shore. By the end of our second month of dating, in September 1996, Ron had moved in with me at my aunt's guest cottage and was commuting to New York City every morning by bus. It was a romantic whirlwind. Every week Ron sent me two huge bouquets of flowers. One went to the courthouse where I was a judicial clerk, and another was sent home. He left me little notes and cards in my brief bag, in the car, on the mirror in the bathroom, and even on the container of half-and-half I used for my morning coffee.

Ron had discovered a very romantic side of himself. When we couldn't see each other, we talked for hours on the phone. After we watched a movie, Ron would brainstorm to figure out a romantic follow-up related to the movie. After seeing Braveheart with Mel Gibson, Ron bought an antique white lace handkerchief and a flower similar to the one Mel Gibson receives from his love in the movie. Ron wrapped the flower in the handkerchief and left it on my pillow one evening. After we saw Message in a Bottle, I opened the refrigerator three mornings later and found an antique blue bottle with a note from him inside.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Wake-Up Call by Kristen Breitweiser Copyright © 2006 by Kristen Breitweiser. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

RISTEN BREITWEISER is one of the nation's leading 9/11 activists. She appears frequently on national television as a commentator on matters related to terrorism and has been featured in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Vanity Fair, Oprah, Glamour, and Ms., and is a frequent contributor to The Huffington Post and other publications. Breitweiser was named Woman of the Year by both Ms. and Glamour, and won the 2005 Ron Ridenhour Truth-telling Award. She lives in New York City with her daughter.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

Wake-Up Call: The Political Education of a 9/11 Widow 4.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My name is vivian breitweiser and we are not related
Guest More than 1 year ago
THis book is the best book ever on 9/11. It really gives you the perspective from a 9/11 and the journey she goes on.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Kristen's book is a must read for anyone who wants to understand the trauma to the 9/11 victims' families and the fight for open disclosure in the political realm. It is well written- clear, concise, and condemning of the political games that were played out.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I learned so much about our government, our national security, and about the true meaning and role we should all play in protecting our homeland from terrorists. I too thought that our government was doing everything in its power to protect our human life and our security. This book is definitely a Wake-up Call.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Kristen Breitweiser writes from the heart, with details to support her trials and tribulations in the aftermath of the 911 attacks. Thanks to her unending endurance/tact/persuasiveness she reenacts the efforts that were put forth by the 'Jersey Girls' to gain the benefits that the 911 victims and victims family's deserve. I can feel her agony and frustration with the group on Capitol Hill. I too did and would have again supported any body but Bush, it is too bad that Kerry did not have the senses to follow her lead. She opened doors that all Kerry had to do was follow and act. I can only hope and pray that she writes more.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is about the love of a family, and also, it is definitely about the strength of a young woman rising to meet a challenge thrust upon her. She has given her time to help each and every American to be safer. I am so glad that I took the time to read this book because Kristen Breitweiser gave a voice to so many of my feeling about our current political situations. Read the book!! It is definitely ointment for the soul.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Kristen Breitweiser has written a book describing her relationship with her husband, his death, and her desire to find out what happened to cause his death. It is revealing about what she dealt with during that horrible time. Reading her letter to Coulter was also great. I found it hard to put down even when my companion wanted to leave the store. It will soon be available for me to read at home.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was skeptical when I purchased this book. However, I found it difficult to put down. This woman was an average citizen on 9/11. She got involved reluctantly in the political process. Her firsthand account of what she experienced is eye-opening. I am glad I read this book. It has changed forever the way I will view the government (regardless of which party is in control of Congress or the White House).