Content warning for suicide.
On my trip to the United States I walked on five bridges: Bear Mountain Bridge, Williamsburg Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Benjamin Franklin Bridge, and Harvard Bridge. The Williamsburg Bridge and Manhattan Bridge had views of the most interesting skylines, and Harvard Bridge was full of happy families, doting couples, and youthful joggers, like some domestic paradise. The bridges that my thoughts keep returning to, however, are Bear Mountain Bridge and Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
Bear Mountain Bridge is in New York State, surrounded by parks and affluent towns. It crosses the Hudson River from the town of Newburgh to the city of Beacon. On each coast is a golf course, making the towns mirror images. When we walked up Bear Mountain Bridge, my breath caught as I looked down. There was the scale, for one thing - the Hudson river stretching hugely beyond my line of sight - and also the dizzying height. A train track snaked through the trees on one side. Mansions littered the coast and twinkled in the sun. The world from the bridge felt big and beautiful and cruel. I watched a 2021 press conference about suicides on Bear Mountain Bridge. Someone from the New York State Senate called on the New York State Bridge Authority to install climb-deterrent fencing, potentially through mesh and plexiglass on the overlooks. At the time I write this, there's an article from 10 hours ago about a man who died jumping off the bridge. There was no climb-deterrent fencing when we visited a week ago. One article pointed out that those fences deter tourists and spoil the sight. They remind us of the need for the fences and force us to think uncomfortable thoughts. They are expensive. These are the reasons, and a dozen hours ago a person died.
The Bear Mountain Bridge
The Benjamin Franklin Bridge also made me wonder about how a town values its people. This one we walked during night. We crossed into Camden, with the intention of walking over the bridge to Philadelphia then taking public transit to return to our car. The area entering Camden was run down. We noticed that the building skeletons were sturdy and large - something had changed between the construction of the city and the present day which caused otherwise beautiful buildings to fall into disrepair. "It's not their fault," we hastened to add. "It's the city's fault. And the federal government, really". I have often been aware of how I am obviously a tourist. In Camden I was more aware than usual, and in a different way. I sensed that people rarely came to this town if they were not living here. The tourism which was ripe in Philadelphia was perhaps not welcomed here. I sensed a history that could not be discerned via plaques.
The bridge was not welcoming. We passed signs warning against trespassers and loitering. The bridge was open to eight p.m., and at our own risk, according to the sign. It was half an hour past eight, but finding the gate open, we continued walking. It was a high bridge and directly below was a train track. There were signs posted with a suicide hotline. In a morbid daydream I imagined how one could drop in front of a train with the right timing, or take a leap a little further to plunge into the Delaware river. Despite the deadly potential consequences, the railing ended at our waists. The only properly effective fence was by the bridge side, where one could presumably climb up on a ridge to grafitti.
As we looked back to Camden, we saw a car drifting in a mostly-empty car park. It left black marks on the pavement. The car was fast and we all stopped to watch it. A few minutes later, it pulled out of the car park and we lost it among the buildings. Meanwhile, someone on the Philadelphia side was lighting fireworks. We wondered if there was an event they was celebrating. The spheres of light looked massive in the sky, just like the spokes of the bridge were massive when we looked up at them. Much of my amazement of America was from scale. Halfway through the bridge, lightposts turned on. We had crossed the New Jersey and Pennsylvania border, and the latter state chose to light their end of the bridge. The smoke from the fireworks attacked us. It was presumably a consequence the firework lighters hadn't considered - we were the last pedestrians on the walkway, the others having been chased back to Camden by the officers responsible for closing the bridge down at night. They let us continue when we told them our destination was Philadelphia. By the water were restaurants and hotels. Massive tourist attractions spanned the coast. As we walked down we went past condos made cheaper by the roaring noise the Subway made. I could see into some windows, a kitchen and a bedroom with coloured lights. People were good at taking advantage of rooftops, putting up laundry lines and chairs.
The Benjamin Franklin Bridge
Just as I was struck by the scope of the nature on The Bear Mountain Bridge, I was struck here by the richness of life on either side of the bridge. I marvelled in the strictly-forbidden grafitti and all the traces of people. I marvelled at how a city could hold so many, all stacked up and distinctive still. It felt a pity that the coast was spoiled by businesses people couldn't live in. The real people were tucked away. The firework people, surely, were romping around on some coastal venue, dominating the sky. From Camden you could just make out the fireworks, coming from another world. The Bear Mountain Bridge, meanwhile, floats over a paradise where none can live unless born into. The bodies are recovered and quietly shipped away. My last observation is a billboard on the Manhattan Bridge. It read there is a $10,000 reward for tips related to cops being shot. I later wondered how that could be an effective ad - wouldn't they be assailed with false tips, and wouldn't people see past the obvious trap? My friends pointed out that the ad wasn't about the tip itself, but rather the message it sent. Some lives are worth more than others.