American exceptionalism and American innocence: The misleading history and messages of the 9/11 Memorial Museum
The 9/11 Memorial gets grief profoundly. But the museum cynically exploits tragedy, confuses history with ideology
After a dozen years of thinking, planning, disputing, designing, building and — we cannot leave this out — patriotic hyperventilating, we have a museum given over to the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001. We have a museum and a problem, the one no less important to understand than the other.
There is what happened, there are the victims, and there are we, the living. All are part of the presentation at the site of the World Trade Towers in lower Manhattan.
The chronology of the fateful day is recounted in minute-to-minute fashion, each tiny turn in the dawning tragedy described with a kind of enveloping immediacy. There is no escaping the sensation of being pulled back into the sunny Tuesday morning itself and reliving it, each shout and siren, as is the intended effect.
The victims are present in a nearly infinite collection of artifacts, nothing too small or ephemeral, and in heart-splitting loops of last-minute messages left on voice machines in the searing heat of minutes that simply moved too fast. They are there in catalogs of pictures, thumbnail “Portraits in Grief” (originally published by the New York Times), and in the incessant repetition of names. Individuation is an insistent theme.
The living, we, are honored, too. The museum offers us everything from wrecked fire engines — three, I think — to more tiny artifacts and more voices — recordings of survivors, of the spouses of those lost, of high political figures. “It tells the story of how, in the aftermath of the attacks, our city, our nation, and peoples from across the world came together, supporting each other through difficult times and emerging stronger than ever,” Michael Bloomberg, the former mayor, told NPR on May 15, six days before the doors finally opened.
There is one other story. There is the story of the perpetrators. These are identified not as terrorists, a term I always consider problematic in that it is a descriptive with only two dimensions, but rather resolutely as “Islamic terrorists.” So, problematic twice, this story.
The 9/11 Memorial Museum is what is known as a “site of memory.” This is the term of a French scholar named Pierre Nora, who has written extensively on the meaning of such places and on that space he defines as “between memory and history.” Sites of memory — village-green monuments, cemeteries, old battlefields, Jefferson’s bed at Monticello — are all about how we are supposed to remember.
And so is the 9/11 Museum’s purpose understood. It tells us how we are to remember events that altered Americans’ understanding of themselves, almost certainly forever. In this connection, part of what is commemorated and preserved, on display for further viewing, is the sensation of shock, the barely formed knowledge that an idea of America had just been exhausted.
With reference to his own country’s past, Nora wrote some years ago, “Only a symbolic history can restore to France the unity and dynamism not recognized by either the man in the street or the academic historian.” This is useful. We are constructing a symbolic history at the 9/11 Museum — history shaped to achieve a certain outcome.
We come to the problem aspect. The intended outcome in this project is at least questionable, and I would say undesirable. Nations are eternally manipulating memory and history, fair enough. But the manipulations now on display in lower Manhattan, purporting to express what it means to be American, are inappropriately charged with politics and ideology. In the name of sentiment — and you can never trust the sentimental — come the cynical uses of tragedy.
This column should perhaps be labeled. I will pause here to paste one on.
The loss of 3,000 lives 13 years ago is self-evidently a tragedy, beyond any other thought or feeling. But I decline to mourn this tragedy as invited. I cannot join in the mourning the 9/11 Museum asks us to partake of.
As I argued at length in a book published last year, I view Sept. 11, 2001, as the weirdly abrupt instant when the American Century came to an end. The 3,000 were the final casualties of a passage in history that took — people are trying to count now, but nothing conclusive yet — tens of millions of lives in the service of preserving American primacy.
All of these number deserve to be the true objects of American mourning. So before any reader proposes to excommunicate me from the human race, I stand here: In my refusal to mourn in the official manner lies my mourning. It is a vastly more decent, humane and altogether conscious way to manage one’s sadness, our American sadness.
There is no question of the power that emanates from the 9/11 Museum. The building and its surround are the work of gifted architects. The curators who installed the exhibitions, and all the consultants who must have advised — historians and so on — are plainly skilled in their fields. They got what they set out to get.
Surrounding the museum is the 9/11 Memorial Park. It is a leafy promenade, a place of contemplation, at the center of which are the deep holes where the two towers stood. The holes are lined with black stone; in the center of each is a deeper hole, dropping out of sight as if to some bottomless place. Smooth falls of water descend uniformly along the surfaces of the stone — down, down, then gone.
The effect stops you cold. All thoughts vanish. The black stone seems to enclose grief itself. The holes tell you all about irreparable loss — a perpetual absence, a taking away. And the water suggests nothing so much as the eternal, ever-repeated collapsing of the buildings into nothingness.
The Memorial Park, the design work of Michael Arad, seemed to me precisely the right gesture to mark the tragedy. It is powerful and properly abstracted, meaning cleansing and cathartic, like the Greek tragedies. It reminded me of Maya Lin’s Vietnam Memorial in Washington. What more is needed, I wondered as I entered the museum and descended 70 feet into the spotlit darkness where the exhibitions are.
The museum goes to a different purpose, it turns out. This is where the big problem arises. This is where we are told how to remember — and so where sympathy changes shape and comes out as resistance.
Why are we asked to stand before a crumpled business card, or a pair of high heels a survivor carried down dozens of flights, or a briefcase, or a pair of slippers a victim wore in his office? You have to ask, because there is a purpose to these displays of paraphernalia. They are effective, no doubt. But what is the sought-after effect?
The invitation is to remember and remember and remember without end. It is never to leave behind the grief, pain, confusion and fear of the moments marked, but to relive them in a loop. The first inscription one sees, on a plaque mounted by firemen to commemorate lost comrades, reads, “Let us never forget.”
This is a gravely mistaken undertaking. It is an invitation to imprisonment. To remember and relive eternally is to trap ourselves in feeling, leaving us short of thought. The burden of the past never lifts, and we are unfree to live and act in the real time of our lives. Missed altogether is the importance of forgetting. Forgetting — the right kind of forgetting, not our habit of erasing past deeds, or Stalin’s airbrushed histories — liberates.