Words matter

 It’s been a little over a week since the demise of the Francis Scott Key Bridge. 

My emotions have run the gamut over these 9 days or so, from profound grief for the families of the lost construction workers to the fear and uncertainty of the economic impact the loss will have on an entire region of workers, the Port of Baltimore and the underlying network of ancillary businesses.

But just today, I realized the thing bugging me way more than it should is the use of the word “collapse,” most often being used to describe what happened to the beautiful span over the Patapsco River.

I admit the recovering journalist in me frets way too much over word use, and I am way too picky and critical about things that don’t appear to bother other people. But hear me out.

The bridge didn’t collapse. To me, collapse is something you do after fainting, or perhaps experiencing something emotional that causes your knees to buckle. 

The Key Bridge didn’t faint. It died of blunt force trauma. It was murdered. The weapon of destruction was an out-of-control 984-foot, 95,000-ton (when empty) commercial cargo ship.

To me, the word collapse — used in this context— denotes weakness, fault, deficiency, neglect, deterioration.

If the bridge had plunged into the river on its own, with no apparent cause or reason but just crumpled without warning, I’d say the bridge collapsed.

That certainly wasn’t the case here.  Our strong and mighty bridge was destroyed after taking a direct blow from a formidable opponent in what could be called an extremely unfair boxing match. The bridge never stood a chance.

In the parlance of the medical examiner’s office, the cause of death was blunt force trauma, the manner of death was homicide and the weapon of death was the container ship Dali.

It is often said that it’s easy to blame the victim. “Collapse,” in my mind, places blame on the bridge, when in fact, the proud structure was just doing its job — the same job it has done loyally and faithfully since 1977 — when it was taken out in the prime of its service life.

It was a commuter road, a beloved and beautiful landmark, a welcome home beacon, and a monument to engineering and blue-collar tradesmen and women.

May the original span rest in peace, and may a new one rise in its place to honor the legacy of the old. 

And may we remember it didn’t quit on us. It didn’t faint. It didn’t collapse. It was destroyed in the line of duty. 

Words do matter.