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As probably everyone knows by now, the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore was struck by a cargo ship early this morning and collapsed. Six construction workers who were filling potholes on the bridge are, at this point, assumed lost in the accident. A comment on The New York Times about the bridge collapse points out that people like construction workers (or farm workers, or laborers, or factory workers ...) are often depicted in "supporting roles" in our society. We rarely actually see them, even when they are physically present in our spaces. The Key Bridge collapse would have been far worse but the construction workers, along with first responders, received the mayday from the ship and managed to stop traffic on the bridge before the ship struck. When you look at the video of the bridge collapsing, you can see the orange flashing lights from their roadwork signs on the bridge, a sign of their presence, even though you cannot see them.
My heart breaks for the lost and their loved ones. They did such an important though unseen job in our society.
I woke up at 5AM with insomnia, nothing new, and Bobby was not long after me, scrolling on his phone, when he thrust his phone at me. "Key Bridge Collapses." WHAT.
The Key Bridge was such a central (key??) place in my own personal history. You can make it through or around Baltimore four different ways. I-95 and I-895 run under the Potomac River via the Fort McHenry and Harbor Tunnels. The Baltimore Beltway (I-695) is a clogged mess going overland to the west. And then the Key Bridge crosses—crossed—the Potomac on the east side.
When I was an undergrad at UMBC, my home and university were on opposite sides of the city. The Key Bridge was the longest way to go ... and often the fastest. That section of highway runs through a relatively sparsely populated region: mostly marshland, shipping, and industry. As a result, there was never traffic.
I took the Key Bridge to school more often than not, and truth be told, it wasn't just the traffic. I loved crossing the bridge. It was tall. I'd look over the side as I drove, and it was a delightfully vertiginous drop to the sparkling water below. It was the kind of low-key terror that is fun to edge up against. And of course the view was spectacular from up there. I've always loved bridges, but the Key Bridge was easily in my top five favorites to cross.
As a young adult traveling on my own for the first time (even if just back and forth to school), I got to make choices on that daily almost-hour-long journey: the music I listened to, the climate in the car, and the route I took. And I mostly chose the bridge.
(And had a habit of regretting when I did not, like the time I got stuck in the Fort McHenry Tunnel for two hours after a serious accident shut down the highway just past the tunnel, in the sweltering Baltimore summer heat, with a giant spider somehow on my windshield (in the tunnel??) that made me nervous to open my windows.)
There was something freeing about moving fast and unencumbered in a region of the world that is rarely so: the near-empty highway, the dystopian blend of wilderness and industry, and then the bright ribbon of water and the Key Bridge to sail you over it.
Knowing the bridge as well as I do, watching the ship collide with it, and then it just ripples down into the water I crossed so many times ... it is surreal, like something out of a movie, not my hometown, not my bridge.
My heart breaks for the lost and their loved ones. They did such an important though unseen job in our society.
I woke up at 5AM with insomnia, nothing new, and Bobby was not long after me, scrolling on his phone, when he thrust his phone at me. "Key Bridge Collapses." WHAT.
The Key Bridge was such a central (key??) place in my own personal history. You can make it through or around Baltimore four different ways. I-95 and I-895 run under the Potomac River via the Fort McHenry and Harbor Tunnels. The Baltimore Beltway (I-695) is a clogged mess going overland to the west. And then the Key Bridge crosses—crossed—the Potomac on the east side.
When I was an undergrad at UMBC, my home and university were on opposite sides of the city. The Key Bridge was the longest way to go ... and often the fastest. That section of highway runs through a relatively sparsely populated region: mostly marshland, shipping, and industry. As a result, there was never traffic.
I took the Key Bridge to school more often than not, and truth be told, it wasn't just the traffic. I loved crossing the bridge. It was tall. I'd look over the side as I drove, and it was a delightfully vertiginous drop to the sparkling water below. It was the kind of low-key terror that is fun to edge up against. And of course the view was spectacular from up there. I've always loved bridges, but the Key Bridge was easily in my top five favorites to cross.
As a young adult traveling on my own for the first time (even if just back and forth to school), I got to make choices on that daily almost-hour-long journey: the music I listened to, the climate in the car, and the route I took. And I mostly chose the bridge.
(And had a habit of regretting when I did not, like the time I got stuck in the Fort McHenry Tunnel for two hours after a serious accident shut down the highway just past the tunnel, in the sweltering Baltimore summer heat, with a giant spider somehow on my windshield (in the tunnel??) that made me nervous to open my windows.)
There was something freeing about moving fast and unencumbered in a region of the world that is rarely so: the near-empty highway, the dystopian blend of wilderness and industry, and then the bright ribbon of water and the Key Bridge to sail you over it.
Knowing the bridge as well as I do, watching the ship collide with it, and then it just ripples down into the water I crossed so many times ... it is surreal, like something out of a movie, not my hometown, not my bridge.
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