Bridges And Black Lives

Some of this I've told before, but modern events bring it back. They are a reminder that the two are for me forever linked. It began in 2007, August 1st to be precise.

For those who don't recognize the date, around 6 PM that evening, in the height of rush hour traffic, the 35W freeway bridge collapsed over the Mississippi River. For everybody with a TV in the state footage played over and over and over, anniversaries brought it back, and back, and back. The new bridge is beautiful, doing its best to make the memories less stark. For years I knew some people who just wouldn't go on it.

My first awareness of the event came with a phone call from my daughter, asking was I all right? As it happened, I was just fine, for another moment, until she revealed why she'd asked. Traffic was heavy, but I was listening to classical music and very relaxed getting through it. I'd ended my day well south of the cities, where 35E and 35W split, one through Minneapolis, the other through St. Paul. Either one was a reasonable choice, but at the last minute I picked E, deciding to stop by my parents on my way home for a few minutes. If there was a particular reason behind the visit, besides their generally requesting I stop more often, it's been long lost. I'd been avoiding the bridge due to its construction traffic delays, but had actually taken it that morning and found it only moderately slow. My route that night was a deliberated choice.

Had I picked W this time, I would have been on that bridge within a probable ten minute window including the collapse. Steph filled me in on why she called, and I assured her I was just fine. I barely switched over to news radio when my son Rich called. Same question, same answer. Now I waited for my youngest to call. And waited. When I finally arrived home well after 8 PM, I challenged him on why he hadn't also called. His response was he'd looked at the TV coverage and hadn't seen my car there!

It was only later we learned about the 13 vehicles which wound up submerged in the river. I teased him a few times later about not letting him quite off the hook.

This is August 2nd. Phoenix (technically Tempe) just had a railroad bridge chunk blown up after a derailment last week. Full cycle, sort of, but a day off. Usually August 1st brings the memories back, but 2020 has had a lot of distractions from such walks down memory lane. A phone call from a friend yesterday brought it back for me. Along with the tie-in, for me, to the Black Lives Matter movement.

What I had been mulling over in my mind, while listening to the music CD on my drive home that evening, was the story I'd heard at work that morning. Her name was Angel Cradle, one of the most interesting and beautiful names I've ever heard. She worked for years as the receptionist for a printing company in Minneapolis which contracted with our company for couriers, bringing me into frequent contact with her. She was one of the very rare people I actually spent time chatting with beyond "sign here please", and "Thanks". She knew me by name when I walked in and addressed me by it rather than "can I help you?"

That particular morning she both shocked me and broke my heart. She had been off work for a while and I breezily inquired how she'd enjoyed her vacation. It hadn't been a vacation. It was a funeral for her son, along with dealing with attendant family issues. She pulled out a photograph of him with his two young sons, possibly 4 and 6. Big grins were on all three faces, something I notice by comparison to so many stiff and forced smiles from my own kids through the years. Come to think of it, most of my pictures as well.

I commented that her son obviously looked so proud of his boys. That's when she told me the story of what happened to him, another in a long line of incidents of violence against black men.

After checking who was around her, she informed me she'd had the picture out earlier when a coworker walked by. When she'd looked at the picture, her comment was that he looked scary. Scary! That's the part which truly shocked me. Angel's son was a handsome, clean cut, well dressed man, posing with his two adorable sons, love among them all visible in every face and posture. How can any person possibly see "scary" in such a portrait? Even more, how can anyone say such a thing to his grieving mother? No sympathy. No humanity. Just "scary."

It wasn't much later that Angel left that company. An inquiry as to where she might have gone yielded no information beyond that she'd left. I've often wondered where she went, though I suspect I can figure why. I saw her name once later in association with community activism, but had no way to contact her. I've never forgotten her, and recent BLM news changes my perspective to remembering I know somebody from years ago for whom it was all too personal.

Wherever you are today, Angel Cradle, I wish you well, and I hope you're surrounded by better humans.