It does not seem possible that I was born and raised in Brooklyn and never once crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on foot. It seems even less likely that I did, once, and don't remember.
These days, I often experience confused memories of what may or may not have happened. Usually, it's that I do remember doing something that I, in all likelihood, never did, and, upon self-imposed cross examination, I realize the recall stems from a particularly vivid dream. Vivid to a point that is, which is why careful scrutiny makes me certain I've conjured up the entire thing. Or otherwise have a deplorably low capacity for attention to details.
With the Brooklyn Bridge though, I'm baffled. I have crossed that majestic expanse countless times in a car, know the views from all angles of the rutted and constantly-under-construction road, know all too well the instinct to shrug myself into a more compact being to fit comfortably within the ridiculously narrow lanes of traffic. I have gazed often at the walkers above, seemingly soddered together shoulder to shoulder as they don’t so much walk as get carried along, as if on a conveyor belt. Many of them, I know, are going nowhere in particular, just crossing the bridge on foot because they can. There is little of note or glamor to be found at either end, at least not without a bit of a trek; better to just enjoy the journey twice.
My son has already walked the bridge during his stay in lower Manhattan. My mom, a tried and true New Yorker and life long Brooklynite was seventy when she finally made the trek. It was 9/11, and she somehow managed to escape the burning rubble of Manhattan and make her way back to the only place on earth where things could make sense to her: home. Unlike the rest of us, glued to our television sets that day and for days to come, she would have no need to tune in. The stench would remain in her nostrils for days, even after the Brooklyn Bridge had carried her to safety. If there is such a thing.
On occasion, it carries people home, but for the most part, for pedestrians anyway, it carries them to nowhere in particular. Yet, so many of us want to join the ranks of those who have crossed on foot. For bragging rights, I think, but also for something more. For the journey to a place back in time, a chance to view, up close, the ornate neo-Gothic towers and the intricate crisscrossing cables that give the bridge such a distinctive appearance. It is a marvel of engineering, a suspension bridge connecting two great boroughs, built well before all the kinks of suspension bridge building had been worked out. It has withstood the test of time while so many other less massive or intricate bridges have either collapsed or been replaced. It cannot help but conjure up images of turn of twentieth century New York City, the ushering in of a period of inconceivable growth. A time when few people could possibly have imagined what the views would look like at the outset of the new millennium, and certainly could never have anticipated the catastrophe that rocked the city less than two years into that millenium, just blocks across the island of Manhattan. A catastrophe that changed not only the landscape of New York but forever altered the map of the world as we know it. As the Brooklyn Bridge did for many, in its own way and in its own time.
It's just difficult to take all this in when you're driving across in a car, desperately trying to avoid collisions in traffic lanes designed for another era. Sure, it's part of the charm, but it's distracting. This is how I know, for certain, that I have never actually walked across the bridge, that my memories of doing so are based simply on an idea of what should be, not what is. So it remains, not yet checked off, on my bucket list.
I am on my way there now, to the city where I was raised. There may be five boroughs, but I can count on one hand the time I have spent in three of them. I grew up shuttling between Brooklyn and Manhattan, carried time and again by the steadfast shoulders of the majestic Brooklyn Bridge. It’s about time I experience first hand how these two great boroughs were finally linked, physically, to endure together whatever triumphs and tragedies lay ahead.
This weekend I intend to make the memory of a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge a reality, and I would bet it is something I will not soon forget. I will invite my mother to be my guide, to walk the walk with me, as she always has.
No comments:
Post a Comment