Reflections After the 24th Annual Paul J. Battaglia 24-Hour Radio Marathon
From 1998 to 2000, the general manager of the WHRW college radio station was a man named Paul J. Battaglia. To be GM is quite prestigious – WHRW is a massive organization with hundreds of members, and by all accounts, Paul was beloved and popular in the role. He is most remembered for his trademark chaotic and zany radio shows where he often put unsuspecting callers on air. He is also remembered for being present on the 100th floor of the North Tower on September 11th, 2001, and his subsequent tragic death.
We know quite a bit about what that 9/11 looked like for Paul, as the recording of his 8:54 AM emergency call has since been published by his mother. The call’s audio is harrowing. Paul seems to have steeled himself enough to speak clearly while engulfed in heavy smoke and crouching in a corner along with thirty other office workers. When he tells the fireman that he’s on the 100th floor, the fireman gives the heaviest, most exasperated “alright”, likely knowing that the plane had crashed between the 93rd and 99th floors, and that hope was already lost.
It’s fitting that the last thing Paul gave us is a recording of his voice. In his final moments, Paul spoke with the same speed, cadence, and hint of Brooklyn that he used on-air. The same voice he used to bring people joy or to annoy his little sister.
Naturally, learning of Paul’s story, hearing his shows and his final phone call, destroyed me.
* * *
The phone recording is but a small bookend on the hundreds of hours of tape recordings of his shows that Paul left behind. His shows captured a campus consciousness that is all but dead. Relentless in its vibrancy, the campus of Paul’s era was portrayed as a place where people seemed to really know each other and spend time together. The average amount of time 19-year-olds spent with their friends in 2003 was approximately three hours; by 2023, it was a paltry 53 minutes. A 70% decrease. And that’s the average.
I long for the connection, vibrancy, and social fluency that was abundantly expressed through Paul’s shows.
* * *
I blame phones. I’m not kidding. The boomers were right. Phones make eye contact with my floormates a rarity; I still haven’t learned their names. I wish people would look up from their phones. I wish I would look up from mine. There could be spontaneity – there could be connection – there could be friendship – enough time for it all.
I long to feel comfortable walking from my dorm room to the water fountain in the hallway without checking my phone. I’ve never scrolled a short-form video feed in my life, and I’ve successfully self-enforced strict one-minute daily limits on all social apps, but the reflex I’ve had since COVID is still there, even if the only thing I can “check” is the New York Times. But even as I’ve put in an extraordinary effort to improve my digital habits, every single one of my peers remains increasingly dependent on attention media. People at the dining hall sit alone on their phones. During class, a majority of students are on their laptops engaging in completely unrelated activities. During downtime in club activities, people escape into their phones. During the performance of an obscure track at a concert for which tickets were $100. During sports games. During a movie showing at a theater. Before sleep. After sleep. Instead of sleep. At each of these moments, a connection could have been made. Those connections are never made.
I long for presence. On Paul’s shows, everyone was present. To Paul, and to everyone who experienced college before the Great Rewiring, the world was a collection of people to know, not a library of media to consume. Today, presence is a rarity. Widespread addiction means people are generally distant. I can’t stand it.
* * *
Campus consciousness is certainly not dead, but it has morphed into something entirely impersonal. YikYak is designed around anonymity, so it is naturally full of all the behavior that is normalized on social media: horrible insults, confidently incorrect political debates, the works. YikYak is undeniably fun, but what it offers is a systematically produced husk of what used to be; the person-to-person grapevine of gossip, the posters on the walls, and yes, the radio broadcasts.
* * *
WHRW, due to its inherently “retro” nature, is a relatively phone-lite community. Proving that I’m not the only one who feels the way I do, WHRW is bursting at the seams as membership spills over triple digits. People here continue Paul’s tradition of talk-show shenanigans and callers on the air. They sit in the station lobby for hours just chatting – connecting. People idealize the 1990s and 2000s in music, fashion, and camera technology. People know what they’ve lost and people want it back.
* * *
I wonder what Paul would say if he had lived to today. He’d be 48 – quite a bit younger than my parents. He’d be a lawyer in the city, maybe doing community radio on the side to keep his passion alive. Always an early adopter, he would probably buy the original iPod upon release but still insist on maintaining a large record collection. He’d be addicted to his phone like everybody else. He’d be welcomed back to WHRW as one of many alums at annual events. He’d probably make some snarky comment about how nobody does it like they did it back when he was around. He'd reminisce with his friends. Deep down, he’d love to see the community continue to flourish beyond him. I certainly do.
* * *
I want to push harder to become as present and social as Paul. I want to make my radio shows as funny and engaging as Paul’s. I want to mourn and I want to celebrate. I want to connect with the past and the present and the future. I hope you do too.
Peace, Love, Moe, and Paul, forever.