How We Remember

Some questions presented by the chairs: Is one supposed to sit in them? If so, does one sit to be close to the dead, to be in their place and assume their perspective? Does one sit in judgment, vigilance, serenity, longing? Does one sit in protest, as at a sit-in, against acts of terrorism and anarchy? Does one sit with America? And if one does not sit--and no one here, not a single visitor to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, makes a move to do so--then is it the chairs that do the sitting? Is theirs the seat of government, power? Are they "musical" chairs (the tall backs look like tuning forks)? Do they suggest that anyone could be in any chair at any time? Do they represent the normal and unthinkable at once--people at work, going through their routines, sitting at their desks, in chairs?

None of these questions are explicit, much less answered, which is the whole idea of the chairs, of the memorial, of modern memorials in general. As America anticipates the first Memorial Day of the new century, the country's most recent projects to honor the dead are becoming ways to understand itself. In the past, memorials in America, like those of prior civilizations, tended to be stone-made celebrations with simple purposes--to inspire, consecrate and glorify in the name of national stability and grand prospects. History was portrayed as success. Grant's Tomb, the men on horseback, the male and female figures representing vices and virtues--nothing was intended to make one think or feel in complicated terms. With the recent changes--Oklahoma City is but one example--comes a willingness to see history as a problem.

The 168 bronze-and-glass chairs honoring the 168 people killed in the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, constitute the main component of the memorial, which opened last month. They are positioned in rows that correspond to the floors of the building where the victims were when the bomb exploded. That accounts for the smaller chairs in the second row; the day-care center was on the second floor. Five chairs off to the side, west of the others, are for those who died outside the building. They are positioned on a slight rise leading to a scarred wall--all that is left standing of the building--and look down to a long black reflecting pool, three-quarters of an inch deep and flush against the surrounding granite pathway of stones salvaged from the rubble. They have the warm, pinto colors of the Southwest.

On the far side of the pool stand fledgling trees, the "Rescuers' Orchard," and a magnificent "Survivor Tree," for those who lived through the blast and for the act of survival itself. Scorched and stripped of leaves by the bombing, it now shimmers with a rich green. The memorial is framed by two massive bronze entrance gates: the 9:01 Gate and the 9:03 Gate, the lettering done like a digital clock. The minutes signify the times just before and after the explosion. The hour of 9:02 is represented by the chairs.

Jeanine Gist walks through the 9:01 Gate and toward the chair of her daughter Karen. Karen Gist Carr was 32; she and her husband Greg had just celebrated their eighth wedding anniversary and had been trying to have a child. She worked as an advertising assistant in the Army recruiting office, writing promotional brochures. She was killed by a blow to the back of the head. A high school classmate involved in the rescue effort could report to the family that Karen's body was found intact, seated in her chair.

"You know," says Jeanine, "people think of federal workers as faceless, not as individuals. The bronze backs and frames of the chairs themselves were dipped individually, to remind everybody that these were people. No two chairs are alike."

"Do you think that the memorial will begin to define the city?" I ask her.

"Maybe," she says. "If it does, that's not all bad. We are more than the bombing, of course, and more that this little park. But the memorial is a sign that we have not forgotten and will never forget. And it has real uses. The young people who come here--I hope it makes them realize how dangerous the militias are."

Jeanine, 64, was one of the 350-member task force that saw to the creation of the memorial and one of the 11-member committee that selected the architects, the Butzer Design Partnership. She and her husband, both recently retired, worked at nearby Tinker Air Force Base. Karen was the youngest of their five daughters, all born within six years. Jeanine stops at Karen's chair. "Everybody loved her. She was a cheerleader in school, an honor student. She was an aerobics instructor during lunch breaks. Bubbly, full of energy, a real sweetheart."

"How did you learn about her death?" I ask.

"After the news got out, we listened to the radio. We checked the hospitals. Then we went home and waited. Everyone in the city waited. It was so hard. The next day the Army came and presented us with a flag and a pin."

She says the chairs were the reason she supported the design. At holidays like Thanksgiving, she keeps an empty chair at the table. "Do you ever sit in Karen's memorial chair?" I ask.