Deja Roo

There were two things that struck me in particular when visiting the Newseum last weekend:

a. One of the displays includes a section of the communications antenna that used to be at the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It looks like a dated and twisted mess. Not knowing the back story, one would think that maybe it survived a moon landing, or Hiroshima. Aside from a commentary of the dated nature of much of the nation’s infrastructure, I was struck by remembrances. Incredibly, I was transported back to being 13, and feeling utterly small in a huge city. I remember standing on the observation deck of the South Tower; having people explain how important it was to not throw pennies because by the time they reached the ground they would have attained deadly velocity. Guess spitting was out too, wasn’t it? It’s funny how an inanimate object, even free of tactile senses like taste and touch, can still trigger memories. I can literally smell the air on that day. Suddenly I felt myself tearing up as I realized I was making the comparison between lost towers and a more innocent time. Because in that moment, I was 13 again. And I knew I had been here before.

Behind the antenna is a display of newspaper headlines from around the world the day after the attacks. I found myself looking for El País, so I could once again see the world framed as I saw it in 2001. The search for the headline proved futile and I wondered if perhaps it was best to keep it in the past, as I had known it, in that moment, on la Gran Via in Madrid. Getting over the fact that events from my lifetime are now museum pieces: priceless? Get to know me: my Newseum’s free.

b. Another stirring component is a delegation of concrete blocks formerly known as the Berlin Wall. I remember people with chisels as one of my first memories of television news. And, I remember, even in a childlike way, understanding that something momentous was happening in the world. Never having identified as German, although by my background I would have every right to feel that way, I’d always viewed this event as being “not me” and “not mine”. (Despite the fact that those contained by the wall could have been family) Perhaps now I’ve studied enough of conflict to see the universality in that struggle, and identify its relevance.