Dreams of spring
Did you ever go up in the World Trade Center? I did — last spring. The experience was memorable, starting with the approach from midtown toward the south side of Manhattan. The skyscrapers rose ever higher, as if each were trying to outdo the others in grandeur and prestige, issuing a cocky proclamation with a million yards of concrete and tons of steel stacked in rows and clusters.
At ground level, staring up the main streets that tripped past the tunnel entrance toward the port, proportions wobbled as my eyes bounced from street-level coffee shops and delis back up to the glinting towers that I dared approach. It was too far, too different in comparison, too much contrast for the senses to take in, so I looked back to street level and focused ahead, as if the sidewalks were balance beams.
My steps more deliberate than I wanted to reveal, I plowed forward through the crowds, heading closer to the mark. The one big building (even though I knew there were two, I couldn’t make out the other just yet) seemed to rocket above the others. Another lower, shyer brick building of only 30 stories blocked my view.
After more walking that seemed to take longer than my senses could justify, I approached the glittering edifices. The angle changed, and now I could see them both, causing an irresistible temptation to look up and up, until my neck ached trying to catch a glimpse of the tops. Then I caught myself looking like a tourist and wondered if my awe was apparent and unseemly to the sophisticated locals.
Finally reaching the interior, I felt the power of 1 WTC. The building seemed to buzz and burst with money, influence, importance and serious business. The inhabitants each carried identification cards and observed security to get to the banks of silver elevators. If you were going up, you had better have a reason. I had one. I was getting a tour — of the roof.
Accompanied by the electrical supervisor and a contingent of people who were to review the roof and the status of the facilities operating on it, I boarded one of the elevators to begin the long ascent up the central shaft. We had to change cars to complete the journey past the lower 100 floors, and still the roof was not reached.
Through a series of locked doors and stairwells, we eventually reached the apex and stepped out onto the highest roof in the country. The view was, to me, frightening. I get vertigo. Still, I was drawn to find a spot where I felt secure and to gaze out to the distant horizon. It was a clear day. It was amazing.
Telecommunications “professionals” all, we attempted to speak about the cabling, the need for better organization of systems and operations, a revised infrastructure to deliver higher and more efficient capacity, and the status of the work that was underway to rebuild and to improve the broadcast facilities. Again and again, the conversation was sidetracked by the view. The shear expanse of land and river and air and space just slammed into our eyes every time we focused beyond the scant confines of that one-acre roof.
One of our party revealed that he had been up on the roof dozens of times before. Another was involved in the work to improve the broadcast tower. The tower shot up through an array of antennas and dishes that might have sprung from the fertile mind of a science-fiction writer. A third man had flown jets with the U.S. Navy for years and had seen the world from up high countless times. Nevertheless, no one was immune to the awe that standing on that roof produced.
The meeting on the roof took about 90 minutes. It only required about 20, but each of us would stop in mid-sentence and just look over the edge of 1 WTC, sometimes making a comment and sometimes just taking in the view.
On Sept. 11, terrorists destroyed that roof and replaced the awe of that vista with the awe that only stark devastation can produce. The towers were brought down, and most of the people that I saw riding elevators and laboring in dark, undecorated rooms housing hundreds of transmitters and receivers are likely lost — dead. I can’t comprehend it.
Again, my perspective is playing tricks on me. I’m here in my fifth-floor Washington office situated three blocks from the White House. I pass the Pentagon every morning on my way to and from work. I see the charred and broken building and read the obituaries in the paper, reminded that another telecommunications attorney was on the flight that was forced down into that national landmark.
I am sad. I am angry. I am committed to help and to seek justice. I am grateful for my family and for my ability to walk the ground and to continue this love affair I am having with life. Still — for 90 minutes — I stood atop Tower Number 1 and dreamed I could fly. The dream has become a vivid nightmare. Damn them. I want my dream back.
Schwaninger, MRT’s regulatory consultant, is the principal in the law firm of Schwaninger & Associates, Washington, which is counsel to Small Business in Telecommunications. Schwaninger is also a member of the Radio Club of America. His email address is [email protected].
