Saving the Baby

THE WOMAN did not survive but the child did; her fall was cushioned by the body of her godmother, who hit the ground first. The young godmother, frozen in flight, knows exactly what is happening—her arms are extended as if they could possibly break her fall—the baby, upright but looking down in disbelief as the disassembling fire escape cascades alongside them, a collage of iron fragments racing them to earth, potted plants in accompaniment. Smoke can be seen creeping and curling like fog over the edge of the rooftop.

I had first seen the photograph—really a series of photographs: the photographer was using his motor drive—while in college, in a class called “Media and Memory” or something very like it. It fulfilled my second history requirement. I lazily chose it instead of the seeming demands of “The World Wars” (too many countries) or “From Revolution to Emancipation” (where I felt my public television consumption had neatly sorted that subject). “Media and Memory” was a collection of still photos, videos, and films augmented by writings about how reportage affects history and remembrance. It was a requirement for journalism students.

I wasn’t a journalism student, though. I was an art major; my college was an art school. It was one of the many colleges in downtown Chicago that are just steps from the lakefront. Some of them are world-famous while others cannot be located on any reputable higher education map. The classroom where I saw the photograph was at the top of a turn-of-the-century skyscraper, gray stone and . After scores of failed auditions, I set my sights on something more achievable. I became a firefighter.