Author Archives: Sayema Islam

Posts by Sayema Islam

Comments by Sayema Islam

"“No, no. We’re all fine, we’re really all fine over here.” The phone clicked back into the receiver as I watched my mother sit back on the couch. It was the third call that day. “It was your cousin from Australia,” she said matter-of-factly. “They saw news of the storm on TV so they called to check up on us.” “Oh,” I said, somewhat disinterestedly as I turned to look out the window again. I watched as water ran down the windowpanes and the big tree in my neighbor’s backyard shook violently outside. My only worry, was that the tree would be pulled from the ground, and tip over towards my own little bedroom. But hey, it was just a little rain, right? The gravity of the situation, the fantastic power of the storm; neither of these things really set in until I turned on the TV the next day. I watched as minute upon minute became hour upon hour of b-roll footage of submerged roads, houses torn from their frames, uprooted trees, tangled power lines, flooded subway tunnels, etc. New York had been hit with one of its worst storms in history, and remarkably, my own family had come out of it relatively unscathed; a thought that became even more apparent as my mother learned that her friend had been evacuated from her home in Long Beach, and returned to find half the house in ruins. But then, came the aftermath. My experience with hurricane Sandy, experiences of consequence at least, can be summed up by two simple things—gas cans and metro cards. If I remember anything about hurricane Sandy, it was the shortage of gasoline that came about from the lack of gasoline trucks able to come into the city. I remember being forced to sit in our car for hours to get gasoline from one of the few filling stations that was actually open for business, and wishing that my family owned a gasoline can like those lucky people who weren’t waiting in line, but just manually filling their cans and promptly returning to the safety of their own homes. I wished we could buy a can, but evidently they were sold out everywhere in the franticism that followed the Sandy scare. How could one get around without his or her car? And then there was MTA public transit. When the subways re-opened for service to New Yorkers, I remember my mother being overjoyed that school remained closed. She feared any water damage the subways may have taken from the storm; feared that the subway’s watered up electrical currents would fry her two children, and made her stance on staying home very clear. In general, I would say that although I was not physically affected by Sandy, the psychological aftermath—both in comforting friends and family, and in not being able to get around as much or as easily were the things that resonate most with me in recalling my experience 4 years ago. But of course while my experience ended after a mere few days of turmoil, I can never forget that there are people still fighting the aftereffects of the storm today."
--( posted on Mar 16, 2016, commenting on the post Assignment 4 )
 
"The thin screech of the old man’s violin cuts familiarly through the biting cold air, a cold metal blade on glassy ice—jarring, yet still somber and melancholy in the afternoon air—as I wonder for the umpteenth time if the notes emanating from his person resemble a song, or just resonate with the general atmosphere of the park around him. Always in the same corner, the same bend in the road immediately before (or after depending on whether one approaches from the East or West side) the dark, dank tunnel where we once set up a failed ambush of friends, and taught each other how to tie our shoes. I stare out at the old man, as he bends over to smile at a small child dropping a dollar into his black velvet-lined case. Sweet, courteous expressions of gratitude seem to pour from his mouth, each word tumbling from his lips as the child and her mother begin to walk away, a subtle change in the tune to acknowledge their departure. “No, it’s not just music. I think that time, it was ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’” Who would have thought, that an East Side-inclined person like myself would find my city solace in Central Park West? A place where I am at most ease with myself; a place where I can’t remember being without my best friends. A place where I can sit or lie down, and just stare at the white sky of an overcast winter’s day, pretending the haphazard black lines of the tree branches overhead resemble some great artwork yet undiscovered, while huddling in close with my friends beside me to make sure none of us freeze to death. A place where I can bury my worries in the snow as we sit on our favorite tire swing, or give the normal park swings another shot, the slippery ones, the ones that make us hope to god that this time we won’t slip off. A park that offers a certain amount of the isolation, yet amidst one’s brethren of NYC; where one can be alone, yet hold the comfort of still being another piece of the New York City puzzle, of still being part of the city’s essential fabric. I don’t believe there to be many other places such as this one, that small chunk of park right around West 55th street, just next to Columbus Circle, where I can remember having a snowball stuffed right into my face, leaving the sweet taste of peace, serenity, and a touch of good fun on my tongue (strictly speaking though, it was just snow). Where I can remember feeding peanut brittle to stray squirrels while wondering how a squirrel’s digestive system will do with sugar. Where I can remember running at breakneck speed away from another snowball attack, while smiling both gleefully and sheepishly at passersby strangers, looking on with warmth, as opposed to the acrid judgment one might get on the elsewhere paved streets of NYC. Truly, for me, Central Park is a place where strangers are no longer strangers, where a smile goes a long way in acknowledging the bright, adventurous spirits of the people around oneself, enjoying the same park they are in, yet ending up with this completely different story to tell."
--( posted on Mar 2, 2016, commenting on the post Assignment 3 )
 
"It’s true. I look a little different from everyone else. I walk the same, talk the same, maybe even think in the same way. But every morning, I get up and wrap a scarf around my head before going out. I thread pins through cloth and hair to hold my faith in place, before rushing out the door into the unknown, backpack in tow. So yes. I do look different, and we live in a world where looks come first, and rationalities later. And truth be told, racial and ethnic stereotypes hold quite some influence in how people view and react to one another. (Ideally, this would not hold true, but who ever said our world was ideal, right? In fact, far from it.) So interestingly enough, although I have never had a serious, legitimate encounter or even any sort of extended interaction with a member of New York City’s police force, of the single minute interaction I can pull up from the recesses of mine own mind, I can say this: knowing what I know about how things often pan out, I have always been wary of what can happen, outside of what is warranted. I spun around again, pivoting about my left ankle as I scanned the entirety of the 14th Street station corridor. “I swear, it was around here somewhere. I mean, I’ve definitely been here before…This is how I returned last time!” My friend looked over at me, laughing a bit, “Ahhh Sayema, are we lost?” “How can we get lost in a subway station? This doesn’t make any sense,” I walked forward a bit and then back again the other way, trying to gather my bearings. “There’s no way there’s only a downtown F. I’ve gone home from here before. WHY IS THIS STATION SO CONFUSING?!?” “Maybe we can ask someone,” my friend suggested, indicating the subway token seller who looked out from his booth, seemingly bored. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna hafta swipe in again. Don’t have an unlimited.” I walked towards the stairs that we had just come up, the ones that led down to the downtown F train. I was sure the uptown train was supposed to be down there too, but something hadn’t clicked and we had been getting the run-around. And then, there was something else I had failed to notice; I had taken absolutely no notice of the two officers standing near an adjacent stairwell, watching me as I stared around me and paced back and forth. “Can we help you with something?” they asked. It was honestly a simple, innocent question. And yet, it all surfaced. All the news headlines and facebook trends, all the seemingly racist stop-and-frisks and ‘conveniently-convicted’ criminals. Why had they approached me? Why would they assume I need something? Am I acting suspiciously? Is it just because I seem to be looking for something the eye cannot see whilst looking the way I do? They looked at me expectantly. I looked back. “We’re just looking for the uptown F train?” And I heard my voice shake just a bit. So why am I telling this story, especially when it barely even qualifies as a significant exchange with our officers of the law? Awareness. If I’ve discerned anything from my fleeting sightings of cops or from my lack of significant encounters thereof, its that I seem to always possess a certain awareness in the back of my mind; a slight jab in the temple that serves to remind me to remember who I am and how other people may see me. If I see cops on the street, I can feel myself consciously looking down to avoid eye-contact, avoid any possible indication of challenging their authority. I can feel myself consciously trying to make myself look as normal as possible (although ironically, one is most normal when he or she is not actively thinking about it), and for no reason at all except a, possibly, irrational sort of wariness that they will take any excuse apprehend me. That’s not to say I walk around the streets of New York in fear, I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do believe strongly that I have nothing to fear when I am not doing anything wrong. But the things one sees and the stories one hears in the dealings of justice (or sometimes lack thereof), the possibility that one person or small collective can ruin a perception of an entire group of people by his or her or its actions, always remains at the back of my mind."
--( posted on Feb 16, 2016, commenting on the post Assignment 2 )
 
"A memorable transit experience? That’s a tough one. When, like me, you’ve basically been commuting for more time then you’ve even spent in school itself, well, you see things. I have stories, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen my fair share of curiosities such as the train toenail clipper or the guy sitting plucking corn kernels off a cob, only to stuff them suspiciously into his jacket pocket; and I’ve experienced more than enough uncomfortable encounters as well with that creep on the train who seems to have nothing better to be doing with his time. But one experience? I wish to share then, one, that I feel encapsulates everything I love and hate about NYC transit in one fell swoop. “This is a Pelham Bay Park bound, 6, local, train. The next stop is, 59th Street.” I felt someone push me to lean even further over the old lady sitting and reading her newspaper before me, and giving her an apologetic grin, I mouthed the word ‘Sorry,’ before looking behind me to throw silent words of disapproval at the stranger’s backpack now digging into my back. “Sorry, I’m being pushed,” I heard another lady announce as I felt myself also being pushed into the man standing next to me, the lady on my other side now fully glued to my arm. “STEP ALL THE WAY IN. THERE’S ANOTHER TRAIN DIRECTLY BEHIND THIS ONE” I felt it even. The unseen roll of one hundred pairs of eyes joining my own, as the conductor’s voice went silent again and the doors attempted to meet one another for a third time. 'Empty words. There’s always a train directly behind this one,' I thought to myself as I heard someone suck her teeth as a small, Asian lady attempted to squeeze into the small space right next to the pole sitting at the end of a row of seats. The crowd moved with her, a magical force sweeping through all the sleepy commuters, ending again at my now arched spine. I felt myself being tipped to lean even further over the old woman—I was basically reading her newspaper now, if anything—and felt as I was being pushed off one of my own feet. 'Gaaaah! Where’d the floor go?!?' I panicked for a second and as I attempted to plant my foot back onto the ground, the man to my left shifted; shifted as people do when they grab your hand’s spot on a train pole when you move for just one second to scratch your nose, and edged his foot to where mine had been half a second earlier. That’s right. I now found myself in a most bizarre situation, worse than when I ended up having to ride the rails without something to hold on to, using my fellow commuters as human supports to keep me upright. I was standing on one foot, holding onto the pole above my head for dear life, so I wouldn’t become page six of the poor, oblivious lady-sitting-before-me’s “amNY,” and my abdominals were starting to burn with the effort. Then the finality of it. We all listened as the door shut with a thud and the train began to move. Just one stop. Half the train empties at 59th. Just one stop, I told myself as the train began to seemingly drag itself forward. It was one of those super quiet trains as well, the ones without the dull roar of machinery, but just the sound of sweat trickling underneath peoples jackets as they exchanged body heat with one another. I let out a shaky, breath. It had gotten hard to breathe even. I couldn’t remember the last time the train had been so packed, if it had ever been so packed. I was standing on one leg for Pete’s sake! I decided hopscotch was only fun when played on chalk-drawn scribbles. Something was missing though, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; and then the train pulled into the station. The stunted cries of “GETTING OFF” filled the air as a teeming mass of hats and hair wrestled its way off the train. And there it was. An audible breath filled the train car as everyone remaining let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My foot found its way back to mosaic floors, and I finally straightened up, muscles and body once again at ease. The moment was a New York minute if I had ever felt one. “The next stop is, 68th Street—Hunter College.” Best train ride ever."
--( posted on Feb 10, 2016, commenting on the post Assignment 1 )