Laurie Anderson in the Sunday Times, 9/16/2001

When I was little, we lived in a small town called Glenowen, about 60
miles outside Chicago. I'll tell you one thing about it. Gordy lived
around the corner. He was probably in his late 30s, and lived with his
mother; he always wore big belts full of tools, and he would climb up
telephone poles, repairing the phones. But Gordy had no idea how to
use the tools, and he didn't know how to repair phones, although
everyone in town thanked him for repairing their phone. They could
have been really afraid and locked up their kids, but they thanked him
instead. It was that kind of town.

On Main Street, there was a five- and-ten store, a bank, a bakery, and
a little movie theatre called the Glen, where I would take the
twins. I had four brothers and three sisters, but I was responsible
for taking care of the twins. I was maybe seven, they were three. At
that time, they spoke their own twin language - they didn't speak
English until they were about six.

They sat around and played chess mostly - which was why I was taking
them to the movies, to get them out of the house. One December
afternoon I took them to see The Ten Commandments, and when we left it
was night. But there was a full moon, so it was bright, really bright,
because there was a lot of snow. I decided to take them back via the
lake that was between the cinema and our house. There were lots of
little magic places on the island in the middle of the lake. I really
liked that island a lot.

The ice was cracking as I wheeled the twins over the frozen lake in
their stroller. I spent a lot of my childhood listening to cracking
ice, and I love that sound. Cracking ice has thousands of different
sounds, a singing, a groaning, sometimes a thudding like a sonic
boom. Whoomp! Sometimes it's a long, mysterious sound. Creeeak! It can
sound like lightning, too, a very sharp sound; when you're skating on
a warm day it makes another noise - crkrwerrk! Ice was always
cracking, so it wasn't a signal for disaster: it was just settling and
freezing and melting and settling again.

But about 20ft from the island, the ice broke, and the stroller sank
into the water. It seemed to be happening in slow motion: a long
moment of horror when I thought: 'This cannot possibly be happening.'
But it was happening, and there they went, sinking down. And this is
another thing I'll never forget. I jumped back when the ice cracked,
and let go of them. I try to look for mechanical and muscular reasons
why I let go of them, how something will slip out of your hands when
you're pushed back. I try not to blame myself too much.

As I watched the little balls on their knit caps going under the
water, my first thought was: 'Mom's going to kill me.' My second
thought was: 'I've got to get them.' I remember ripping my jacket off,
and diving down. The ice must have cracked at an angle, which opened
up a hole, because it was very easy to get in - I didn't have to push
the ice away. I'd been swimming in the lake a lot the previous summer,
so it wasn't an unfamiliar place to be, and I knew I could touch the
bottom if I really held my breath. But I didn't know if I could find
something in the dark, and it was black under the water and very, very
cold.

I found Craig, the firstborn, first - he would be the one you would
find first. They were both strapped "I saw the balls on their caps go
under, and my first thought was: 'Mom's going to kill me' " into the
stroller, so I had to undo the strap under the water. I got him out
and threw him on the ice, and then I dove for Philip. I couldn't find
him. The stroller had slipped away from the ice hole. I dove again and
found him. He was blue, and didn't appear to be breathing, and I had
no idea what to do, so I just frantically pounded on his stomach until
he began coughing up water, then I put one boy under each arm and ran
home with them. It wasn't so far really, around the lake, up one hill,
down another hill, and up the driveway.  About eight minutes to get
back. Adrenaline is an amazing thing.

It was Saturday, and my parents were both at home. I told them the
story, and they said: 'Isn't it great you're such a wonderful diver
and swimmer, you saved your brothers.' That was an amazing thing they
did, because you're just figuring out who you are at seven years old,
and if you almost killed your brothers, that's not a good thing to
have hanging around your neck the rest of your life. No word that I
almost drowned these guys, not even an admonition like: 'Gee, it
wasn't such a smart idea to go over to the island.'

I remember how incredibly relieved I felt that I wouldn't have to
explain why I didn't test the ice myself, or why I jumped back, you
know, a million things that your parents might ask you to explain. But
they never did, and the twins didn't seem to hold it against me, which
is very nice of them. I choose to think of it as how, when something
breaks under your feet, it's not unusual to lose your balance and your
grip.

That episode was the first time I saw how a terrible failure could be
a kind of success, and that maybe they weren't so far away from each
other. I became obsessive after that about keeping track of failure. I
kept a list of the 10 greatest people in the world, and this list
would shift all the time. But these were not people like Gandhi or
Churchill - these were people in the class right ahead of me - and
they would go up and down on the scale when something bad
happened. Because, as I saw it, and as I see it now, it's very easy to
be a nice guy if you're succeeding, but if someone did something
interesting with a failure, something really smart or creative, they
would go right to the top, No 1 for at least a week.

The twins are now in their 40s, and they still live together, in the
same house where we grew up in Glenowen. One has endless numbers of
degrees; the other one drives a truck sometimes. The thing is, I don't
know anybody happier than those two. There's a funny kind of bond with
identical twins, they're literally the same person. A lot of people
spend their lives looking for someone to understand them and love
them. Those two were born with someone, their relationship could not
be more different than those of us who were born alone, which must an
incredible comfort.

They have nothing to prove, Craig and Phil, they are the most
unambitious people I have ever met in my life. They're very happy with
the small things in life; they like people, and they're interested in
having conversations with people, and they're happy to paint the
house, or take a drive. You know, just happy guys.