The Politics of Art & Authenticity

The first student’s names are announced over the PA system.  Whenever a student’s name was called that meant they were to go down to the main office because they were going home.  As a child, one could only think “they’re so lucky!” Five minutes later two more names are announced.  Ten minutes later over ten names have been announced.  Almost an hour later over 20 names have been announced.  Before noon we’re packing up to go home, the teacher says we’ve been granted a half day.  But why?

Were parents called?  There were over a hundred students in the school, it seemed almost impossible for all parents to have been contacted.  Yet, as our teachers lead us outside, it amazes us to see parents lining the sidewalk waiting to bring their children home.  Even the children whose parents make them take the bus because they can’t normally pick them are there.

My dad calls my name to leave with him.  On our walk home he won’t tell me anything and seems to be anxious to return.  As we walk back the only thing he says is “they fell.”  What was happening?  What were ‘they’?  What fell?  To my questions his only response is, “You’ll see.  It’s all over the news.”

When I arrive home the TV is still on and it is tuned into the news.  There are two buildings on the screen and one is falling.  “The second tower was just hit!” the man on TV announces from somewhere off screen.  It sounds as if he’s not reading the teleprompter, as if he blurted this out on his own.  His voice comes off as a yell softened by the noise of the first plane in the background, slamming nose first into the first tower.  What did it all mean?  My dad finally tells me that these two unrecognizable structures were the Twin Towers, the two buildings that I loved to point out every time we passed the Manhattan skyline, my two favorite buildings in Manhattan because of how unique they are…were.

I then remember my mom works somewhere in Manhattan.  Did she have a half-day too?  Would she come home early?  My dad’s on the phone so I quietly wait, thinking he’s busy.  He pulls it away and dials a number again but nothing.  Not a word is spoken and he seems even more anxious than before.  Where’s mom?  I question him but dad remains silent before answering he couldn’t get in touch with her.

We were not able to get in touch with her until much later.  Her call had finally gotten through.  She had walked to Queens via the 59^th Street Bridge and walked along Queens Boulevard until she reached Woodhaven.  She arrived home unscathed.  She was safe.  No one explained anything to me until years later when my mom finally felt comfortable speaking about it and when she thought I could finally understand.  “We heard them all…from the squawk box…until the very end.”  It’s a horrible memory, which continues to haunt her even today. Whenever she is forced to recall this, the life seems to drain from her, the air about her changes, she becomes serious and her voice becomes grim.

Years later she told me more.  “I knew quite a few people in those towers.  Do you remember my last boss, Marianne?  Her sister was in the second tower. It was right after the first plane hit that she thought something was going on.  She thought there was another plane coming and thought it would be safer to leave.  They threatened to fire her if she left.  She didn’t care and with a group of people ran down all those flights of stairs…”

Even now after a decade my mom still hasn’t visited the site.  She claims she’s busy and doesn’t have time but it is more than that.  She probably does not want to remember any of it.  Without a doubt she wants to maintain her strong appearance, knowing that even the strong fall apart here.

The entire time I was there, before I even set foot in the memorial, I was recalling.  Everything pieced together in my mind, everything my mom said, everything I saw that day on the news, everything I heard, and everything I learned in school.  It continued to replay over and over.

It was twice as meaningful because this past weekend a man named Albert Lutzkow passed.  It was only after his death that I found out he was not only a veteran but helped to build that wonderful hall which leads to the large auditorium in Baruch’s 23^rd Street building.  Among his many accomplishments one stood out.  He was one of the men who helped build the Twin Towers.  I’m sure he had taken a lot of pride in helping to build the two tallest buildings Manhattan has ever seen.

Overall the memorial site was beautiful.  The waterfalls that cascaded into oblivion could never be done justice by photograph.  One would have to see it for themselves.  What’s more, the trees were beginning to hibernate and had barely any leaves on them.  Though I know that was due to the zephyr winds of autumn it felt like they too were paying tribute to those lost.

Photo creds to Yamel!!!