Proud to Leave Behind

I’ve been reading White Shoe by John Oller this week—a book that traces the rise of the modern American law firm through the stories of the men who built them. It’s more than just a chronicle of contracts and courtrooms. It’s a story about our American values: integrity, ethics, responsibility. 

As I read, I kept coming back to the story of the Triborough Bridge.

 

It’s easy to admire bridges for their scale, their span, their symmetry. But every now and then, a bridge tells a deeper story—one not just of engineering, but of ethics. And in the case of the Triborough, that story runs straight through the convictions of a man named Samuel Untermeyer.

 

Untermeyer was a sharp legal mind and a sharper moral one. In the 1930s, as steel was being sourced for what would become one of New York City’s great connective arteries, the world was watching something else rise—Nazi Germany. German steel was strong, affordable, and readily available. But it came with baggage heavier than any suspension cable could bear.

Untermeyer, a Jewish-American attorney and vocal opponent of Hitler’s regime, wasn’t having it. He had already launched a boycott of German goods—a quiet economic resistance with profound implications. To him, steel wasn’t just a commodity. It was a choice. And sourcing it from Nazi Germany meant reinforcing a regime of hatred.

 

So when talk turned to using German steel for the Triborough Bridge, Untermeyer and others pushed back. Hard. Their message was clear: if we’re going to build bridges, let’s not build them out of moral shortcuts.

 

The project found steel elsewhere.

And the bridge still stands.

 

Not just as a feat of construction, but as a monument to a moment when values won out over convenience.

 

That story hasn’t left me. Because it isn’t just about 1936. It’s about right now.

 

Today, we’re still building. Still sourcing. Still deciding. And once again, the questions aren’t just about cost per ton. They’re about who we empower when we choose one supplier over another. What communities we support—or exploit—when we build. What corners we cut when we prioritize margins over meaning.

Untermeyer knew something that still holds true: that the built environment isn’t neutral. It reflects us. The values we choose. The things we tolerate. The future we imagine.

 

Steel is just steel. Until it’s not.

 

Because once it’s poured and bolted and stretched across a river or into a skyline, it tells a story. About who we were when we built it. And what we were willing to stand—or not stand—for.

And so the question comes back to us: What are we building? And what does it say about us?

Because a bridge is never just a bridge. And a building is never just a building.

 

They’re always, quietly, declarations of belief.
And if we’re lucky—if we’re principled, persistent, and just a little brave—maybe they can be declarations we’re proud to leave behind.