fifteen

people eating lunch outside on wall street
lunch on wall street, 2 may 2013

I bought my first digital camera in October of 2001. And the photographs I have of New York before then are pretty scarce–film cost money, after all. So most of the day-to-day life that I remember of the city live only in my memory. With every trip back, I keep trying to find remnants of that past and photograph them, in perhaps an act of preservation, or even resurrection.

All I usually end up with, however, is evidence of how much the city has changed, and while this evidence of the ever-changing urban landscape would otherwise mean that I could never want for things to photograph, I leave the city feeling even more distant from the New York I remember.

The essence of life in the city has not changed, however, and even though the backdrop may change, with the landmarks I remember long disappeared and new exteriors in their place, I think I’ve managed to find examples of it and capture it.

I used to work summers in the financial district. A few of my classmates did, too, and every so often we’d get together during lunch breaks and find somewhere outside to sit, eat, and chat. We were surrounded by the thousands of other workers doing the same thing. Any place that can be sat on, will be sat on, turned into an ad hoc meal table. It’s something I think is quintessentially New York, made unique by the sheer density of humanity that’s found on a summer day anywhere in Manhattan. Sometimes, we sat in the plaza of the World Trade Center for our lunches. A perfectly common activity, unworthy of saving it on film.

It’s okay that I don’t have photographs specifically of those moments. The memories, the feelings they evoke, are the key. But I’ll continue trying to save proxies for those memories, for their potential to trigger those memories. I guess you could say that’s just my motivation in general, why I photograph what I do.

Fifteen years ago, I was studying in New York to be an engineer. Were I any other place, were the Towers not to come down, maybe today I’d be doing just that. But because I was so close to tragedy and could do nothing to help, could not help with communications despite having become a licensed amateur radio operator for just that reason, last night, on my last night float shift for the month, I was directing resuscitation for a young patient in shock and close to dying.

I do miss engineering. But this… this is a privilege. The sum total of my four years in New York helped steer me here, shaped who I am, and for that I don’t need a photograph to remind me.

ten

Some things you don’t forget.

“Did you have classes on September 11?”

“Yup.”

“When were you supposed to be in at school?”

“I wanted to be there at 12:00.”

“What day was September 11?”

“Tuesday.”

“Did they cancel classes?”

“Eventually.”

Some things you can’t remember.

I can’t remember if I tried to call any of my friends to see if they were okay.

I can’t remember if I tried to call anyone, for that matter.

I can’t remember who called me or tried to call me.

I can’t remember whether anyone who tried to call would have been able to reach me, anyway.

I can’t remember when I finally turned off the TV.

I can’t remember when they let us back below 14th Street.

I can’t remember when I finally let myself go below Houston Street.

Some things you wish were not even a dream.

nine

Dammit, don’t wonder why we called.

We love, and then we were afraid we lost.

Scott Swanson, 11 september 2002.

i remember not knowing what to do with myself that afternoon. stuck in queens. going to the nearest hospital to donate. directed to a blood center on long island. getting there. a man asked me if he could borrow my cell phone to call his family. he was heading home from manhattan. long line. couldn’t get to all of us today, come back tomorrow. wrote an email. went to church. the songs. that was the last day i could sing them.

school was closed since access to everything below 14th street was cut off. in the spirit of carrying on, sachin and chuck and i ate at daniel. 65th between madison and park. that damned stench carried all the way uptown. later that week we hopped on a bus to sachin’s parents’ house in eastern pa for the weekend. subway service was spotty. suspicious packages and whatnot being called in. a guy working for bell atlantic was waiting for the bus. said they finally restored service to lower manhattan. said the commuter lots along the way would be full of cars waiting for their drivers who would never return.

on the notesfiles. “thank god no one we know was there.” except one of us did have someone. i’m so sorry, matt. i won’t forget.

later. the memorials everywhere. flyers and posters on seemingly every available space seeking information on loved ones. anger. sadness. fear. but also thanks and gratitude. new york’s finest and bravest. friends who were in class on that day. friends who lived blocks away from the towers. friends who were stuck in traffic on the williamsburg bridge on their way to school, conscripted to bear witness. all of us getting calls from family and friends present and past wondering if we were okay. we don’t live or work near the towers. kind of surprised.

But don’t you understand? For those of us who lived in NYC, conducted our business and our lives in that place, we know how often life seems to inexorably draw us to that area. The subways, the sheer number of companies in the buildings, the hotel with its conference rooms… How many meetings, seminars, visits did I have down in WTC? How many times in the last week, the last month, the last year I was there?

And now I was 3000 miles away, in a land of eternal sun and blasted heat and rebirth and death and constant nothing and all of the sudden my friends were in danger and I had no idea about their lives, where was class today, who had what meeting where, was somebody meeting someone for an interview…

And I had to know, then, right then. Was Tony okay? Was Sendhil okay? Were Bill and Laura okay? All my friends, all my compadres of five years that I barely even remember anymore… the mass death, the totality of obliteration, and who the fuckall knew who was alive and who was dead and who was dying and who was trapped and….

The City is a big city, but it’s also a meshed city. You can be anywhere. One hour you’re at Lincoln Center enjoying a string quartet and the next hour you’re at dba slugging down beers made by monks in a country you forgot existed.

Dammit, don’t wonder why we called.

We love, and then we were afraid we lost.

Scott was also attached to the Office of Emergency Management in addition to his employment at CTW. The operations center was in 7 WTC. Much later, he would confess to me his own form of survivors’ guilt; that he thought, had he still lived in the city and been on duty that day, he would most likely have died then. Scott, I hope you are taking care of all of them.

Sometime soon after that day, the call came for amateur radio operators to help provide communications support at Ground Zero. Rather obviously, they wanted hams with handheld radios and enough battery packs to last at least a full shift. I couldn’t go. I only had my mobile radio in my car. There I was, in the very situation I wanted to be prepared for, to be able to help…and I couldn’t.

I will never be as unprepared to help as I was that day.

seven

Flipping through the TV programming guide tonight, I saw the familiar 9/11 documentaries and movies popping up in the listings, reminding me that, on Thursday, it will have been seven years since that day. I have little in the way of comment except to say that, as always, remember to treasure your loved ones every day.

I located an email I sent to friends and family the day after, having been reminded of its existence because of the proximity of September 11, and also from having had the chance this weekend to see an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in nearly four years. Its text follows below.

Continue reading “seven”