The Man Who Walked Between the Towers

September 08, 2011

Meet Philippe Petit, a 24-year-old street performer. In those 24 years, he had walked across tightropes in Paris and Australia, and had also practiced and performed juggling, fencing and bullfighting. Though he did all of those things, none would be as fun or solidify his place in history more than the day in 1974 that he walked between the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York.

On August 7, 1974, Petit fastened a tightrope between the then-unfinished towers and began his journey. From 110 stories up, Petit taunted the bustling city below, walking and dancing on the 200-foot long wire. Mordicai Gerstein retells the events of that day in his Caldecott Medal-winning book, The Man Who Walked Between the Towers. The book is good, but I am partial to the version on BookFlix (under People and Places), which narrates the story and animates the pages.

Petit was also the focus of the 2008 Academy Award-winning documentary entitled Man on Wire. Many theatres across the country are having special screenings of this documentary to pay homage to the towers that once stood.

Ten years ago, our world was forever changed by the attack on the World Trade Center. As we remember the lives lost during and after the disaster, and those lost fighting overseas, I thought it would be a nice homage to mention Philippe Petit and his amazing (and highly illegal) feat.

Although, if you were to ask Philippe Petit today, he would say, "I don't see time begin and end. In my head, the twin towers are still alive."

Surely they are still alive in our minds as well.

Thesis + Antithesis = Synthesis

I was taught that in my many history classes.  First, a thesis is formed.  Then, an antithesis is brought about, usually in direct opposition to the thesis.  After careful consideration, reflection and criticism, a synthesis can be formed from the opposing viewpoints.  Ultimately, that synthesis becomes a new thesis, and the whole process begins again (just like Michael Finnegan).

In life, we are always faced with these viewpoints.  In fact, our whole life is made up of choices based on what we experience.  These choices are often influenced by those closest to us.  In taking advice from loved ones, we can only hope to formulate our own thesis about life (or at least individual moments).  I have always tried to take my mom's advice about anything.  My mom was an incredible woman, and I can only hope to be half the person that she was.  She has influenced my life so much, and she still does, though she is gone.  I think that throughout her life she was happy.  She always saw the silver lining no matter how dark the clouds were, and even though she experienced things that I would never want anyone to suffer through, she came out the other alright.  She always told me to make sure that I am happy, and other friends have told me that as well.  I guess it takes a ton of bricks to knock some sense into me, but I finally started doing things that made me happy.

My job makes me happy, that's for sure.  I can't put into words how I feel about libraries.  I never thought that I would want to do something like what I do now, but I just feel like I have found a lifelong career.  If my career makes me happy, and I need to do what makes me happy, I should be... happy, right?  Logically, it makes perfect sense to be happy, but at the same time my happiness has split.  Because of this ideological split, I am faced with uneasiness and anxiety.  A very good friend of mine told me about her grandmother's advice about happiness/careers.  She had said that if you focus on your career, everything else will fall into place.  It's a good philosophy.  So is my mom's.  I can't discredit either because both are sound.  So, now I am faced with torturous reflection, consideration and criticism of two theses.  At some point (soon, I hope), I want to have had considered these philosophies and formulate my own synthesis of my situation.  Hindsight is always 20/20, and I wish that forethought was too.  It's just really hard to make such decisions when a career is in one place, and happiness is in another.

Is it an itch?  Is it homesickness?  Is it an adventurous spirit?  I don't know exactly, but I want to figure it out.  Until then, I will *NOT* hang myself, but I may have a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat.

Taps

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP

That's the sound I heard when my dad was impatiently waiting for something.  Usually, it happened during a phone call or the off-chance that we went out to eat at Burger King.  I know Burger King isn't eating out, but that's the place we would go.  I remember when I was big enough to eat a Whopper all by myself; it was still 99¢, too.

My dad grew up on a farm and there were different types of equipment there.  There were always kids running around and playing with the toys.  Well, apparently, my dad liked to play with said toys whether they were on or off.  I remember him yelling at me when I tried to lift the grass guard on the riding lawnmower while it was running.

He said that I should pay attention to the warning:

Why would I do that?  Nothing's going to happen to me!  Of course, I tested his theory and lifted the guard.  SNIP!  There went the tip of my finger.  I still miss it to this day.  That's why my left pointer finger is just a little bit shorter than the right.

Don't worry.  That didn't happen.

My dad is probably part of the reason for that warning label.  He did just that, only it was with much larger machinery.  He really did lose the tip of his pointer finger.  The blade cut off the tip almost down to the knuckle.  However, it did not cut out the entire nail bed, so his nail was still able to grow.  Instead of having a full nail though, it was sort of a rounded nail tip right in the middle of his finger.  So, while most people roll their fingers to convey a sense of urgency, my dad would just curve his finger and

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP

I am *NOT* a crook

Where am I?  Someone is after me; I can feel it.  I'm not sure who it is, but they're out there looking for me.  I feel like I need to run, but where?  I don't know what I'm running from and I have no idea where they will be.  So I run.  I can't feel how long I've run, but I am at an estate.  It looks like a castle.  Again, I'm unsure of where I am or why I'm here.  I sense a need to get to the balcony.  It's more like a patio, but it is completely stone.  I sneak up to it and clamber up the wall.  As I get over the edge, two uniformed officers spot me.  One is a middle-aged and portly man while his apparent partner is a very young, perhaps just out of the academy, female.  Both are wearing flack jackets and pursue me through the green expanse of the lawn.  All of a sudden, I am no longer being chased.  We are walking and talking as old friends.  As we near the far side of the estate, the police back away and go back toward the house.

I'm home again.  It feels good to be back in Silex.  I used to live here, but it feels natural, good to be here again.  Mom and Dad are gone of course, but I still feel like I am home.

From inside, I peer out the window.  They're here!  Someone must have told the cops that I was here!  The guy in charge is walking around in his flack jacket.  He looks oddly like Mr. Sheffield from The Nanny.  More police cars pull up just over the hill by my driveway.  I can't count all of them, but there seems to be at least 20.  For some reason, they are after me, and it's pretty serious.  Mr. Sheffield gets a call on the walkie.  There's movement beyond the trees next to the drive.  An urge comes over me:  I have to escape.  I grab my bike and ride through the three-acre lot.  I cross over the creek and make my way toward the highway.  As I look back, it appears as if I have gotten away.  No cops follow me or even know I'm gone.  I keep riding, just in case.


I make a right onto the old highway and pass the auto parts shop.  Before I get to the curve, I redirect North taking an old trail away from the roads.  Where a corn field once was, now there's this path.  A path that I've been on before.  I know where I'm going now.

I look to the left and there's a ball field that I've visited often.  To the right is a brown field.  I make a left by the ball field and notice some establishment to my right now.  I can't recognize it, but again, I think I've been there before too.  The hedges may have given it away.  As I travel down another dirt trail, I find myself in a very familiar village.  My brain keeps telling me Knob Creek, and although that is also the name of a popular Bourbon, I can't refute the village's name.

There's a rather large shed coming up.  With vague familiarity, I approach.  Ah, my old friend is there.  He is my friend, right?  I can't remember his name or where I know him from, but he seems like a friend.  We go inside the shed and he shows me his new contraptions for causing people pain.  Actually, these devices look more like a punishment, a self-inflicted punishment.  He definitely is my friend, but should I trust him in this shed alone?  He then informs me that the shed is also mine.  We share the title.  Why would I have a place like this?  There are so many gruesome tools here.  I can't imagine a reason to own this property and allow someone, even myself, to convert it into this.  As we talk, he explains the evils of humanity and how disgusting we have become.  Humanity must be punished, but only through these tools, apparently.  What was that?  Movement.  Outside.  Someone is here.  I didn't think anyone knew about this shed!  That's the whole point behind putting it here.  It's time to go again.  My friend sends me on my way, giving himself up to the authorities most likely.

As I ride on the main drag, I notice my surroundings.  The old antiques shop is still there on the right.  The only thing electric about that place is the neon sign that the owner never turns off.  They're open 24/7 if you trust the sign.  There's the little bistro that I've seemingly gone to.  I near the now occupied intersection so that I can ride through to where I need to be.

From around the corner appears the chief of police and his wife.  Oh no!  How did this happen?  How did he find me?  Even without his uniform, he had to do his duty.

"Why don't you come with me."

I am seated in an old wooden chair in his office.  His secretary, who looks to be about 180 years old, is seated behind a desk.  As the chief and I are talking, she attempts to take notes but repeatedly falls asleep.  He asks her to leave and takes her place.  This is an interrogation.

The exchange goes on for quite sometime, but his last questions pierce my brain.
"It says here in your profile that you would dress up these ladies and have tea parties with them."

"What?  No!  Why would I do that?"  As I respond, it all rushes back to me.  I see images of dead women, now forgotten lives.  Like photographs they flood my mind's eye.  I remember every detail.  I remember everything that I did to them.  No wonder they are after me.  I killed those people.  Women, men, all of them.  It's all my fault.  They've been hunting a serial killer!

"It also says here that you killed these people because you were longing for a tangible relationship."

For some reason, I am not alarmed though.  I am collected, but furious.  This is preposterous!  "No!  That doesn't even make sense!  Why would I kill them if I wanted a relationship with them?"

"That's what is says here in our profile of you.  Are you telling me that our profile of you is wrong?"

"It has to be!  I would never have a tea party with my victims after they're dead AND I wouldn't kill them to gain a relationship!"

I watch him carefully.  He scrawls a single word on my criminal psychological profile:  "LYES"

Mom and Her Hair

This is the first expressive paper that I wrote for my college English class.  My teacher was awesome, and the class consisted of only 6 of us.  They had to keep the class because we had the minimum number of students.  It's one of the most unique classes that I've ever taken.  Forgive possible wording issues and poorly phrased ideas, but it was my first real paper and I have left it in its original state.  I will always remember September 11th because it's my mom's birthday.
...

Her hair never wanted to stay down, and the same was true for her. Mom had dark brown hair. Her hair was almost black, being from Italian descent. I cannot remember a day when her hair was laid flat on her head. It was apparent that nothing would keep her hair down or even in a style.

Her spirit was just as free. It was like a wild mustang on an open field. Her confirmation name was Philippe which literally means “lover of horses.” She was around horses until after I was born. In fact, my dad proposed to her on horseback in the middle of the woods. It was pouring rain at midnight as well. She indeed loved horses, but in a way, she could relate to them as well. She was very active outside and she never liked being inside. On those occasions when she stayed inside, you could watch her brown eyes as they darted to every window in the house, longing to be outside in the sun. Her dark tan further implied how much she enjoyed the outdoors. Sometimes, Mom and I would just sit on the front porch and watch our dogs play in the grass. The dogs would play and get so tired while we just sat and laughed. Just sitting out there seemed like such a great thing to be had.

Mom was one of those people who could not be kept down. Her attitude was as wild as her hair. Anything in her life could not have prepared her for 1996. In the spring of that year, she was diagnosed with cancer. When the family heard, we all thought that it was a big deal, and indeed it was; but Mom did not see it as a disability. In fact, in a way it might have been a blessing in disguise. No matter how much the medicine ravished her body, she would keep active in her weakness. Her hair fell out because of those drugs, but eventually grew back in. She may not have been able to enjoy the sun all that much, but she never let that get to her. I could see her stubbornness as clear as day.

Mom was her own person, and she was not going to listen to what people said if it was going to interfere with her enjoying life. Mom was stubborn, but never in a bad way. She defied nearly everything that the doctors had told her. She did try to stop smoking, but other than that she was still enjoying life. The doctors had suggested that she change her diet. They had also said that it was a good idea to cut down on doing so many things that she had always done. Her whole life, Mom had worked for other people and it was hard for her to adjust to not working so much. She was set in her ways just as her hair would never lie down.

In her service of others, she was a waitress and even a nurse in Vietnam. She would always tell me about her time spent in Vietnam. Instead of hiding the memories like most people, Mom embraced them. Her time in Saigon was spent helping people. She would help people without prejudice. No matter how bad the situation may have been, she always tried her best.

Mom was in one situation that had actually sent her home. She helped a Vietnamese child one day without knowing the consequences. The child had a bomb wrapped up in a towel, along with the arm that he was missing. Mom sent him up to the top floor for treatment. Without warning, the bomb went off. The building collapsed and she, being the highest officer there, had to get all the others out. As she ran out the doorway, the steel door collapsed on her legs. She was sent home and was left with steel in her leg muscle. She later recovered and kept on with her life. From hearing all of her stories, I realized how determined she was. Just like her hair fell out and grew back, she did the same. Her energy may have fallen, but it soon came back. Her determination never left though.

When that diagnosis came, I thought that we would never be able to do the things that we used to do. We would go into Troy every Saturday just to window shop. We would spend the whole day on Main Street just enjoying the incredible day. Usually, we would go to any restaurant at all and stop by the park to eat. It was not much, but for Mom and me it was a great thing to do. Riding in the car on those Saturdays was always fun too. I, being an inquisitive child, would always ask the curious questions any normal kid would ask. However, when it came to curiosity, we would usually get on the topic of how she grew up or some of the serious things in life. She liked to talk about her father, whom I never met. He was an immigrant from Sicily who always tried to help anyone, even though he was a stranger to most and just an immigrant to others. I guess that is how Mom’s attitude about everything came about. During those car rides, I learned a lot about Mom. Those things, I thought were gone because of the cancer.

As it turned out, I was completely wrong. The cancer passed without Mom taking any further treatments. Everything became nearly as normal as it was before. For four years everything seemed to be going alright. In 2000, cancer invaded her body once again. The diagnosis was not as hard on everyone this time because of what had happened earlier. Friends came over on Christmas to fix dinner for her. Once again, her stubborn attitude became prevalent. She longed to be in the kitchen fixing that supper. However, those friends kept her from working too much and that dinner turned out fine.

Mom always made the best out of life, no matter what the situation. So many people were touched by her presence and so many people were affected by her loss. Mom lost her fight with cancer early in 2002. Her hair had grown gray streaks in it. It showed how much she had been through. The dark brown still lingered as to say, “I made it through all this.”

She is now next to my dad in St. Alphonsus cemetery. She gave so much to that parish that we thought it would be fit to let her rest there. Even now, I see my Mom in me a lot. I know that she influenced me a lot in the things that I do and the things I say. Even how I act towards people has been influenced by her. My hair still sticks up in places, and I can’t calm it down.

Pastime/Passed Time

Swing and a miss!  Strike three on a curveball that dropped way out of the strike zone!

He looks to have squandered the last chance for his team there.  That's the third out.  Dan's team still trails as we go into the ninth inning.