FRIday, SEPTEMBER 21, 2001

Names and face, not just numbers

 

I never knew Lorisa Taylor.

Or Stacey Sanders.

Or Aaron Horwitz or any of the other faces that smiled out at me from the back pages of this week's editions of Newsweek and Time. The faces were part of photo montages, pictures posted by friends and relatives around various locations in New York desperately seeking those who were no longer there.

Taylor, Sanders, Horwitz and all the others -- thousands of them -- are missing and presumed dead in the ruins of the World Trade Center buildings. As far as I'm aware, I didn't know anyone who died on Sept. 11, although I have a cousin in New York who didn't go to work that day and is probably alive for that very reason.

It has been said we live in a world of six degrees of separation, that everyone in the world knows someone -- friend of a friend type stuff -- within five removes. That said, I'm sure I know people who know people who died in New York or at the Pentagon.

But even without first-hand knowledge, I feel as if I know people exactly like them just from looking at the pictures their loved ones posted. Maria Ramirez is smiling in a graduation photo, while Paul Ortiz Jr. is holding his baby in his arms. Donna Clarke is smiling for the camera, her husband's arm draped lovingly around her shoulders.

The numbers are too staggering for us to really get our minds around -- 6,000 dead or missing and presumed dead, billions and billions of dollars in damages. That's why I don't think we should spend too much time focusing on how many people died or how much money it will cost to rebuild whatever it is we're going to rebuild in New York and Washington.

If we are going to remember the events of Sept. 11, 2001, and I hope with all my heart we never forget them, we need to remember the fact that these were individuals with hopes and dreams who died. They were men and women with families and friends who loved them and will miss them for as long as they live.

In the period just before the United States entered the Second World War, a German U-boat torpedoed a Liberty Ship named the "Reuben James." When Woody Guthrie sang about it, he focused on the human loss, not the fact that a ship had gone down.

"What were their names, tell me what were their names? Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James?"

Our challenge in the weeks, months and years ahead is to remember Nigel Thompson, who had a Superman tattoo on his left ankle. To remember Pete Ortiz, the father of 6-month-old twins who will never know their dad. To remember Gerald Baptiste, one of the firefighters who went into the building to try and save lives and didn't come out.

In our parents' generation, there were certain places that evoked horror just by their mention. If you heard in the early days of the war that someone had a son or daughter at Corregidor in the Philippines, you knew immediately their chances of coming home weren't very good.

To people in and around New York in the days after the World Trade Center bombings, the name Cantor Fitzgerald might evoke some of the same horror. More than 700 of its employees are missing from its north tower offices between the 101st and 105th floors, 10 floors above where the first hijacked airliner hit.

Ironically, Cantor Fitzgerald CEO Howard Lutnick survived. He was coming in late that morning because he dropped his 5-year-old son off for the first day of kindergarten. If there's anything that shows the whimsical nature of fate, that may be it.

I don't know Lutnick -- I didn't even know his name before last week -- but I have no doubt that what happened last Tuesday changed him in a very fundamental way. He speaks of remembering his lost colleagues, of keeping his company afloat so that he can provide for the 700 families who lost members on Sept. 11.

Even 700 is too big a number, though. That's why we need to remember Claudia Martinez Foster and Jeannine Damiani-Jones, Lynne Morris and Monica Goldstein. They were young and beautiful, and I feel certain none of them walked into their offices last Tuesday with the feeling that it was the last day of their lives.

If there is one thing we have said so much it is beginning to sound like a cliché, it's that when you're young and strong, you believe you are bulletproof. You can't imagine getting old and dying, let alone dying without getting old.

I don't know if people in war-torn countries -- or folks in countries where terrorism is a common, everyday possibility -- spend much time considering their own deaths. My guess is they don't. If you're going to live, you can't spend your life preparing to die.

When I was a lot younger, I visited the United Nations building in New York. There was a statue inside the General Assembly building -- it may still be there -- with the following inscription:

"It is a privilege to live this day and the next."

None of us ever really know when we leave for work in the morning if we will be fortunate enough to make it home that evening. Even if we're not firefighters or police officers, test pilots or other people who live their lives in harm's way, there are so many things that can happen.

That's why it is and always will be crucial to let the people who matter to us know how we feel about them -- as often as possible.

In Monday's column about the challenges facing Americans in the days ahead, I quoted Winston Churchill and Franklin D. Roosevelt. Today the best thoughts I can share with you come from a song by James Taylor.

"Shower the people you love with love, show them the way that you feel. Things are gonna work out fine if you only will."

Kris Hughes. Thomas Hines. Shakila Yasmin. Sandra F. Smith. Jennifer Lynn Kane. And more than 6,000 others as I write this.

Dear God, I wish I knew all their names.