One hundred years ago, the Bridge was “the Eighth Wonder of the World,” an amazing achievement by Washington, John and Emily Roebling and the workers who built it. There can be nothing like that today. I watched the fireworks from one of two 110-story towers, but I can’t imagine anyone celebrating the 100th anniversary of the sterile, utilitarian World Trade Center.
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I swore I would never do this. I told my lover, I would never write a reactionary thinkpiece in the wake of another police murder, that I would never write to the beat of another black body banged against the pavement, lifeless, blood pooled. But here we are.