Twenty-Five Years Later, The Bell Still Rings

Commentary: Reflections on Berks County’s September 11 memorial gathering, twenty-five years after the attacks.

COMMENTARY By Lazaro L. Castellon | The Mifflin Report | Berks County Retired U.S. Army Chief Warrant Officer Will Tobin, who served as master of ceremonies Photo: The Mifflin Report. READING, Pa. — Seven times, the memorial bell rang. And for a quiet moment in Berks County, everything else just stopped. Twenty-five years have passed since nearly 3,000 people lost their lives on September 11, 2001. A quarter of a century feels like a long time, but Friday’s gathering made one thing abundantly clear: time passing isn't the same thing as forgetting. The crowd didn't gather simply to look backward. They came to honor the people who were stolen from us, to pay respect to those who ran straight toward the danger, and to stand alongside the families who still carry that heavy absence every single day. A uniformed fire official salutes as nearby attendees stand with their hands over their hearts. For many, those lost weren't distant figures in news reports—they were young men and women with big dreams and bright futures. Among them was Michael Emmett Brennan, though everyone who loved him knew him simply as "Mikey B." If there was fun to be had anywhere in the room, Mikey was guaranteed to find it. Growing up in a large, vibrant Irish family in Queens, he was the kind of kid you couldn't help but root for. By the time he was 14 years old, he had already built a reputation as a great young man—always polite, always willing to lend a helping hand, and always talkative, full of life and energy. FDNY firefighter Michael Emmett ‘Mikey B.’ Brennan, 27. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Mikey’s answer never wavered: he was going to be a firefighter. Nobody who watched him grow up ever imagined that noble dream would mark his final sacrifice. Today, the block where he grew up—stretching down 41st Street—has been renamed Michael Brennan Way in his honor. On that terrifying morning when the Twin Towers fell, no one could have braced for the reality that Mikey was inside them, climbing up into harm's way. Yet, he died doing exactly what he loved: protecting others, serving his community, and answering the call without hesitation. Mikey's story is a painful, vital reminder of the stark reality of that day. It was Islamic terrorism that stole innocent lives, shattered families, and robbed communities of bright young leaders like Mikey B. Standing in the shadow of twenty-five years, that loss brings a clear and urgent lesson: the only way to stand up against such evil is by remaining unyielding, standing strong together, and keeping this nation united under one flag and under God. That exact commitment hung over the morning's reflections. Retired U.S. Army Chief Warrant Officer Will Tobin, who served as master of ceremonies, pointed to the memorial displays set up for the morning. At the center sat the bell, resting on a base shaped like the Pentagon and draped with an American flag. Around it, a quiet field honored Flight 93, whose passengers fought back before their plane went down in Shanksville. Six corners marked the military branches, two tall pillars recalled the Twin Towers, and nearby, a flag bore the names of every person killed that day. Those names—including Mikey’s—aren't just statistics etched into fabric. They were sons, brothers, neighbors, and friends. Every single one had a life that was supposed to keep going. For Tobin, 9/11 wasn't something he watched on a screen from a distance. He was just seventeen years old, freshly out of boot camp, expecting to serve his country in a time of peace. Then the world changed. He ended up serving 23 years, including combat tours in Iraq. He represents an entire generation of young people whose youth was swallowed up by the Global War on Terror—kids who enlisted, families who waited by the phone, and service members who came home carrying scars that don't always show on the outside. Tobin described himself as a seventeen-year-old who had recently enlisted in the military and graduated from boot camp in April 2001. That morning was full of memories of how people responded when the unimaginable happened. While thousands of terrified civilians were trying to get down the stairwells of the burning towers, firefighters like Mikey B. were pushing their way up. They didn't know what was going to happen next; they only knew people needed help. Office workers carried wounded strangers, boat captains formed an impromptu fleet to evacuate Manhattan, and on Flight 93, ordinary passengers made the heartbreaking, courageous choice to fight back. State Representative Mark Gillen shared how he responded to Ground Zero and stayed through September 12th. For years, he kept those memories tucked away. But recently, when his daughter—now a second lieutenant in the Army—received her own deployment orders, the weight of that day came rushing back. It was a stark reminder that 9/11 didn't end when the sun rose on September 12th. The ripple effects have lasted for decades, in health battles fought by first responders and in empty chairs at family dinner tables. Lieutenant Colonel Jay Ostrich, director of the Berks County Department of Veterans Affairs, asked the crowd a question that hung heavy in the air: Did their lives matter? He spoke about local boys he served with in Iraq who didn't make it back, like Specialist Jerry Pellegrini and Private First Class Nate DeTemple. He said the only real way to answer whether their sacrifice mattered isn't by giving another speech or hanging another flag. It’s about how we live after the ceremony ends. Do we check in on Gold Star families? Do we take care of our veterans? Do we teach our kids? Do we treat our neighbors with basic human dignity, or do we let ourselves fall apart over small divisions? In the days after the attacks, Americans remembered what it felt like to belong to one another. Neighbors looked out for neighbors, strangers offered helping hands, and people set aside their differences. Berks County Commissioners Christian Leinbach and Dante Santoni challenged everyone present to hold onto that spirit—not because a tragedy forced us to, but because we choose to. Near the end of the ceremony, Lieutenant John Naylor of the Reading Fire Department stepped up to the memorial bell. Berks County Commissioner Christian Leinbach spoke about the responsibility of local government to preserve memory. Leinbach compared September 11 with the attack on Pearl Harbor, noting that both events became defining national traumas and both demanded a long-term effort to teach later generations. He struck it seven times. The first six tolls rang out for the lives lost on September 11th. The seventh toll was for everyone who came after—the responders who got sick from the dust at Ground Zero, and the service members who lost their lives in the long wars that followed. When the metal stopped vibrating, a profound silence settled over the crowd. No speech could have said more than that silence did. During the ceremony, a person in the crowd asked me, “Did you see that—Chrissy Houlahan smirking?” I replied, “Yes.” To me, the expression felt out of place at such a solemn gathering. I cannot speak to her intent, but that was my reaction to the moment. A bell rings and then fades away, but the quiet duty left behind stays with us. To tell the true stories of young men like Mikey B. To teach the kids. To support the families. And to remember that honoring the fallen isn't a photo opportunity or something we do once a year—it’s how we choose to live every single day. Attendees hold American flags and printed programs during the memorial gathering. Sources September 11 memorial ceremony video — YouTube . The wider ceremony photograph is by The Mifflin Report. This commentary expresses the author's views and personal impressions.