When the clock hit midnight, turning September 10th into the 11th, I had one person in mind as I looked over Friday’s sports section one final time before leaving the office.
It wasn’t my parents or friends, who likely were asleep 1,000+ miles away. I had one person in mind who I never met or knew, and never will. I thought about Bill Biggart.
Bill, a German-born photographer who moved to New York City in the ‘70s, was a self proclaimed “news junkie” with work seen in the New York Times and Reuters. He had seen the fall of the Berlin Wall, terrors of the Gulf War and social injustices through the ‘80s and ‘90s. He was a New York native, a Yankee fan, loved sailing and gardening, and hated color photography.
He was also in New York for September 11, 2001. A day that tragically cut his illustrious career and life short.
As I sat in the office in the early hours of the 19th anniversary of the day, I thought of Bill. I thought of what he did the day before. What did he eat for dinner? Did he get ready to watch the Red Sox play Roger Clemens’ Yankees, only to be disappointed when it was postponed? I like to think he was.
I also often wonder about what he thought as he fell asleep that night, and if he had preplanned his morning like some do, planning for the little inconveniences like the subway being behind schedule.
Instead, the morning did not go as planned. Bill overheard from a cabbie that a plane at hit the World Trade Center, and sprung into action. As he approached the World Trade Center, he saw the second plane hit, and captured the moment like millions of people did on television.
And like 3,000 others, Bill died at no fault of his own in his own backyard of New York City.
Running towards the towers, he took 300 images on both digital and film that documented the destruction and aftermath. His final image came at 10:28:22 a.m. The North Tower, which is where he was believed to be standing at the base of, crushed him within that minute.
He was found four days later after an extensive search. His two film cameras were destroyed, with unsalvageable film, but his digital camera had a perfectly preserved sim card. Inside, the last hour and a half of his life chronicled as photos.
The images depict chaos. A wall cloud of dust closing in, then the aftermath of emergency personnel helping to evacuate before the North Tower fell. Every image was more powerful than the other, they are forever on display at the International Center for Photography and the Smithsonian’s National History Museum of American History.
Bill even had his own exhibit at the Newseum in Washington D.C. (which is unfortunately no longer open), where every photo documented is on display, along with his cameras, press pass, notebook and camera bag. All still look the same as they did in 2001.
I remember Bill today because to me, he is a hero. He did what nobody else did, or would do. He had no agenda. He was not out to skew the news. He was there by choice. He is the only photojournalist to die from 9/11, and should be remembered for his bravery in a place no other reporter ventured.
In the current political landscape, millions of people believe journalists are the enemy of the people. They say reporting isn’t the same as it once was, and they’re right. It’s not. Nothing is the same as it was 20+ years ago. That’s life.
But to lump us all together is not fair. If Bill hard turned around and went home, he’d likely be alive today (he’d be 73), and I doubt he’d agree with you in demonizing us. So many reporters would give their life for their job, and have.
He gave his life for news, and to show people exactly what happened as it happened. And for that, he will forever have my respect and will forever be an inspiration for me as I go deeper into my career as a reporter.
Whenever a national tragedy happens, I always imagine what I would do if I was present in that moment. Would I run? Would I stay and take photo or video? I will never know until it happens, but a part of me feels like I would stay and go to work. To document the news in the truest and rawest sense, like Bill did.
The story Bill told cost him his life. He got closer than anyone else did. His work will never be replicated and he should be remembered just as much as the thousands of emergency workers and civilians who lost their life.
As I write this, I’m getting ready to head off to a football game in Council Bluffs to cover a high school football game. I will not be running towards danger. I will not be staring up at a 110-story building wondering if it will crush me. I will not live through a generational terrorist attack. This I know.
I will, however, remember someone who gave their life doing a job they loved. I hope some day I get to be even a fraction of a journalist as this man. The next time I’m in New York, I’ll find Bill on panel S-66, and pay my respects to someone I will admire forever.
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Contact the writer:
Email: thetu@crestonnews.com
Twitter: @TheTylerHetu