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DISCLAIMER: Corey Henry is a senior staff photographer for The Daily Orange and does not influence the editorial content of The D.O. in her role. She wrote this personal essay about her experience as a Remembrance Scholar.
I knew the tears would come, I just didn’t know when.
I slowly traversed the balconies of Hendricks Chapel, trying to be a fly on the wall. The crowd then began moving toward the Place of Remembrance for a candlelight vigil. It was 2018, and this was one of the first of many events I would photograph for The Daily Orange. To my surprise, I was doing a good job maintaining my composure.
That was until the music began.
Otto Tunes, an a capella group at Syracuse University, sang a rendition of “Home (I Am)” by George Kamel. Their voices combined in a hushed somber melody. “I’ve been dreaming…” they began. Their voices grew louder and more urgent as the song climaxed at an abrupt pause. Then, those two words hit me: “I’m home.”
I remember slowly bringing my camera to my chest, clinging to it as uncontrollable tears poured down my face. I tried my absolute best to be as invisible as I could as a photographer. But I forgot all about the camera, engrossed in the moment.
After the vigil ended, I was still attempting to photograph, with tears streaming down my face. Madeline Merwin, the Remembrance Scholar who represented Pan Am Flight 103 victim Richard Monetti, approached me with a somber smile.
She hugged me and left me with some advice, “Being professional is being able to share your emotions,” she said. Every Remembrance Week since, I repeat that advice to myself in addition to a simple phrase written on Miriam Luby Wolfe’s Remembrance display chair that reads, “I did my job today.”
The “exuberant” Miriam and my mom, both musical theater majors at the College of Visual and Performing Arts, quickly became attached. Miriam, who was two years younger, became the little sister my mom never had.
Elizabeth Billman | Senior Staff Photographer
“The Red Balloon” by Albert Lamorisse was Miriam’s favorite book. My sister started the tradition of tying a red balloon to Miriam’s chair as a way to remember her, which I have continued.
Miriam was also one of the 35 students studying abroad with SU who was killed from the terrorist bombing of Pan Am Flight 103.
I grew up hearing Miriam’s name and seeing her pictures around my house. As a child, I had always thought she was still alive because of the way my mother talked about her: a fiercely devoted friend to all and an immensely talented writer, actor and singer.
I also love to sing, just not in front of other people. My mom always said I sang the horn riff perfectly from Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” before I even had a conscience.
When I joined choirs at a young age, I felt safe. I could blend into the background while still being able to do what I loved. But when I sang by myself, I shut down. Dozens of people have tried to tell me that I should just put myself out there because I had the voice — a gift. But I kept my gift to myself.
I came to SU to continue my family’s tradition of looking back and acting forward in the memory of Miriam. This year, I have the honor of representing Miriam as a Remembrance Scholar, just as my sister did in 2015-16. It means more than I could ever put into words.
Elizabeth Billman | Senior Staff Photographer
I fully invested myself into learning everything about Miriam, someone who would have been a huge part of my life. Every single person I talked to who knew Miriam mentioned how radiant and full of life she was — and how she still impacts them to this day.
Miriam wrote in her last letter to my mom, “I’m sitting here on an absolutely perfect Autumn day in Kensington Park. It’s a huge beautiful vast place not too far from where I live. It’s one of those days when you feel so happy to be alive. I miss you, Tami.”
I never met Miriam. Unfortunately, I never will.
As a Remembrance Scholar, I feel as if I know her better than I ever have. I can see her smiling and sitting on that hill. I know my mom can, too.
When I called my mom on a cold October morning this year, I asked her an important question: “What was Miriam’s favorite song?” She vividly recalled how excited Miriam was to sing “Someone to Watch Over Me” by George Gerswhin for a cabaret she was in. Miriam loved the song as a ballad, but she was told to sing it up tempo as it was “originally written,” which my mom said made her so mad.
After that conversation with my mom, I immediately knew I had to showcase the song at the Celebration of Life, a night full of song, speech, dance and love to celebrate the lives of those lost. But if I sang it live, I knew I would burst into tears.
A couple days before my performance, I sent a rough recording to a couple of Miriam’s past scholars and a few of my close friends to make sure it sounded OK. I was going to sing the song as Miriam wanted to sing it, as a ballad.
The night before the Celebration of Life, I tried recording a few more takes but was not completely satisfied with what I had recorded. Sitting on a bathroom floor, I felt my throat grow dry from attempt after attempt. My fears of the stage were coming back, but I knew this was bigger than me.
I quickly ran downstairs and threw on a plain black shirt, carefully placed my Remembrance pin of Miriam over my heart and recorded a few video versions of my performance. The very last take I knew was the one I had to show to the audience.
Leading up to the event, my heart was racing, and when I was introduced to the large turnout, my heart nearly stopped. I felt as if I was about to faint, but I took a deep breath and glued my eyes to my pre-written introduction. As I read through my introduction before my recorded piece, my voice wavered. Thankfully, no tears interrupted my remarks.
My mom gasped when the song started. No one in my family knew I was going to sing.
As the recording played, my best friend Elizabeth Billman, another Remembrance Scholar who represents Timothy Cardwell, squeezed my hand. I knew it would be all right even as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
Once the video concluded, I didn’t hear the applause or the cheering around me. I focused on finding my mother in the crowd. Once I did, I felt my tears start once again — happy tears. After the event, my mom told me Miriam would’ve been so proud.
My mom always said that Miriam would have been my sisters’ and my number one supporter in life, and she is. She’s still here with us in our hearts. Miriam is that someone who watches over my family and those who remember her always and forever.
The performance wasn’t entirely for me. It was for Miriam, my mother and their beautiful relationship. It isn’t about me singing; it’s about the song. It’s about the memories embedded in that song. It’s about love.
Elizabeth Billman | Senior Staff Photographer
The “exuberant” Miriam and my mom, both musical theater majors at the College of Visual and Performing Arts, quickly became attached. Miriam, who was two years younger, became the little sister my mom never had.
Published on October 25, 2021 at 12:06 am
