Some years have been hard, but these kids are survivors

By Tom Lindley

Published: April 17, 2005

It has not been easy, but after 10 years life is blossoming again under the Survivor Tree.

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It is manifest in the radiant expression on Rebecca Denny's face and in her mane of red hair.

P.J. Allen, running ahead of the others across the walkway of the Oklahoma City National Memorial, is a blur of red, white and blue. His shirt is both a patriotic display and a manifestation of his desire to experience all the freedom that comes with life.

Nekia McCloud is the shy one, taking everything in with big, brown eyes, which light up when she talks about her big brother who just returned from a tour of duty with the U.S. Army in Iraq.

Joe Webber shows his practical nature when he warns Brandon Denny, Rebecca's older brother, that it might not be a good idea to get their feet wet in the reflecting pool.

Almost 15, Chris Nguyen is the oldest of the six children from the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building day-care center who survived the April 19, 1995, blast. It leads him to wonder what another 10 years will bring, and what they will say to each other when they come to terms with their destiny.

"When I talk about it, the child in me wants to run away, but I know I can't do that," Nguyen said.

Something to share
Like the tree before them, all six have been scarred by tragedy, but on this sunny Saturday morning they reveal the promise of spring.

"Look at them, they are sharing with each other just like they did in the day care," said Thu Nguyen, Chris's father. "They love to see each other."

To the world, this is hallowed, somber ground, where 168 lives were lost when a bomb ripped off the front of the Murrah Building and stripped us all of our innocence.

For the six survivors from the America's Kids Child Development Center who came back to have photos taken, this was their playground again, if only for a moment. They were too young that day to remember it any other way.

Chris' mother, Phuong Nguyen, took joy in the fact that Chris was spending his days not far from her downtown office in the glass-fronted day-care center. It meant she could peek in on him during her lunch break.

"I wouldn't let him see me because the moment he did he would jump up and down and cry for me," she said.

The morning of April 19, she saw only black smoke pouring from the sky in the direction of the Murrah Building.

"What can you think but the unthinkable?" she said. "Half that building was sheared off and you know your child is in there."

Thu Nguyen will never forget sitting in the waiting room with other parents as a hospital official read the names of the children who had not survived.

Nineteen children died in the Murrah Building.

"We don't know what to say to the others," Nguyen said. "We're quiet around them, but we pray with them. It is not easy for them."

Proper guidance
Chris was spared from being crushed by a wall that somehow came to rest on a perpendicular object before it toppled on him. He was found by rescuers in the space between.

For months afterward, his skin was so raw and pink from his injuries that he couldn't play in the daylight. He would stare into the back yard wondering why he couldn't go out with his cousins.

For another two years, the Nguyens felt so unsafe they had Chris sleep next to them every night.

"We don't want to spoil him, but we want to guide him in the right direction," Thu Nguyen said.

Generally, it's a direction away from the scene of the bombing.

Peace and warmth
For Jim and Claudia Denny, there is peace under the American elm and warmth in the soft glow emanating from the field of empty chairs.

Each memorial service marking the anniversary gives Brandon, who has had a series of brain surgeries and who spent months in the hospital, another year to get better.

There isn't a day that goes by that Claudia Denny doesn't think about the bombing. Reminders don't wait for an invitation.

"I was walking by the spot where the Galleria parking lot was being built and saw a big ol' pile of rubble," she said. "Suddenly, I saw Brandon sitting in that rubble."

Lavern McCloud's daughter, Nekia, had not been enrolled at the day care center very long when it was blown up.

"It was close to my job; I thought it would be the perfect place," she said.

Nekia, whose brain was damaged, spent five weeks in a coma and twice nearly died.

There have been no easy steps in her recovery, but Lavern McCloud said their lives have been centered on living as normally as they can.

She is uncomfortable revisiting that day and visiting the memorial.

"One hundred and sixty-eight people perished, so I don't want to brag that she (Nekia) made it," Lavern McCloud said. "It's hard when you lose a loved one."

People are always saying: "Lavern, how do you do it with a son in Iraq and Nekia?"

She says she is fortunate "God gave us the strength to stand and not fall."

Like the others, Nekia McCloud has earned her spot beneath the Survivor Tree.