Hurricane Sandy came smashing into my life in a whirlwind of power outages, uprooted, severed trees, and wind speeds of 115 mph. Hurricane Sandy was an experience that shook me to my core, unsettling me from all previous notions that the great New York City was somehow impenetrable to mother nature’s forces.

I remember scouring the Internet a day before the storm, double and triple checking that our area of Chinatown wasn’t one of the most high-risked neighborhoods. I remember my family stocking up on water, batteries, candles, and preserved foods. I remember creating a duffle full of dried food and emergency money in case we had to go to safe house to rough out the storm. Supermarkets were packed to the gills, the shelves picked clean, residents frantically buying everything they could possibly need to endure the storm. All preparations were completed and the entire city waited with bated breath for the hurricane to strike. The hurricane began during the early morning. I remember sleeping fitfully the night before the storm. I woke up befuddled and scared, listening to the wind’s high pitched screams as it whistled past my apartment building at 115 mph, making the windows rattle and the brick foundation creak. The most severe part of the storm lasted until the afternoon; the sky was gray and muddy, the sun completely obscured, the snapping of tree branches added to the cacophony of loud, eerie whistling as the winds gusted past.

When the storm died down, people began sticking their heads out of the windows, the braver ones venturing out the front door, to observe the aftereffects of the storm. The city was a ghost town: all the shops closed, the windows shuttered, and the metal grates drawn. The streets were littered with leaves, tree branches, and pieces of garbage. Here and there, smalls shops opened for a few hours, selling a rapidly dwindling supply of dusty batteries and battered candles, day old bread and pastries, bringing in lines of customers that wrapped around the corner. Without electricity, the city had lost its soul. Without electricity, the city has lost the light, both literal and figurative, that came from the bright streetlights, bustling restaurants, and technological devices, as well as the hustle and bustle of the residents and the tourists. It was a truly a terrible week. My family began waking, working, and sleeping according to the sun: clustered by the windows in my room where the daylight was brightest, my sister and I catching up on homework while my parents read and re-read newspaper articles. Our daily meal was a never-ending cycle of cereal, bread, and granola bars. Hot showers were out of the question, and we drank water from our pre-packaged supply, fearful that the water supply was no longer safe because of the storm. Our only connection to the outside world was a small battery-run radio, and we would listen to it constantly for warnings in case we had to leave our area. School and work was cancelled that week, and the transit system was down. We became lethargic, feeling sleepy in front of the nightly candle, depressed from the lack of activity, purpose, and the short, short hours of sunlight. Our relatives called our landline, urging us to go to Brooklyn where life went on the same as usual. For them, electricity, hot water, and opened supermarkets flourished, and the hurricane was simply a week long vacation. We finally caved three days before the storm ended, hopping on the next bus heading out of lower Manhattan, and then laughing out loud as we watched the streetlights finally turn on one by one as we were driven out of the city.

Hurricane Sandy was, dare I say, an interesting experience. Many of my friends were unaffected by the storm, having a nice break from school in Queens and Brooklyn, but some who lived in the farther reaches of New York City were disastrously effected when their homes were destroyed. Hurricane Sandy was truly a terrible storm, not only because of the aftereffects of smashed homes destroyed by a mix of wind and seawater, but also because of the fear it inspired in a city known for its resilience and ability to overcome all odds.

During the four years I had spent in Stuyvesant High School, Rockefeller Park, west of River Terrace and a part of Battery Park City, would be my solace in terms of distressing and relaxing: away from the academic environment. I would unwind surrounded by blossoming greenery, the picturesque landscape, and the beautiful view of the sunset glowing golden in the afternoon, glinting off glassy steel buildings. The breezy air spray with salty mist from the Hudson River, the sweeping fields of grass, the blossoming trees, and the manicured pots of flowers circling stone tables, benches, and copper statues contributed to the serene and light-hearted atmosphere, juxtaposing the tension-filled, pressure cooker institution I had recently graduated from.

On winter days, the frigid air, biting wind, overcast sky, and flocks of geese pausing from their flight south to rest on the brown, dry, grass would deter pedestrians from wandering into the park. On summery spring days, however, droves of students would be seen flocking into and out of the park: some gathering in clumps to chat over coffees, smoothies, deli sandwiches, and fries, others fanning out across the freshly mowed grass to play endless rounds of barefoot Frisbee or flag football. During the lingering summer days, families could be seen having picnics on the lawn or hosting barbeque parties by the grill next to large wooden picnic tables. Children would run to and fro from a massive jungle gym that was equipped with the normal slides and ladders as well as a sandbox, monkey bars, swings, and even a bicycle carousel. Children and their parents could also rent out rackets, chess games, Frisbees, hoppy balls, foam seesaws, pool sticks, and balls for various functions and sizes to play with in the plethora of sport courts or game tables.

The park’s location at the heart of Tribeca, with Wholefoods, Shake Shack, countless delis, fast food chains, and takeout restaurants bordering the area, has also been ideal for hungry teenagers exhausted from a long day of classes, gearing up for the long train ride home, or preparing for the long night of studying ahead. For entertainment, students, families, and employees working within Tribeca could always travel two to ten minutes from the park and experience new memories at the Regal movie theater, the Poet House, the local dog park, the ferries docked along the waterfront, the newly renovated Irish Hunger Memorial, the glass encased, palm tree’d mall court at the World Trade Center Financial Building, and the stylishly designed New York Public Library. Teardrop Park, a neighboring public space and a part of Battery Park City, is a hidden oasis containing an abundance of tall trees, shrubberies, a rock wall formation, a waterfall, a ravine, and a sand and water basin: providing a quiet, peaceful space and temporary relief from the blazing heat and sun on summer days. The area surrounding Rockefeller Park is not only ideal in aesthetics, but is convenient for students, employees, tourists, and residential families alike, catering to different needs and interests and creating a space of fun and relaxation.

Policemen were always “on standby” in the never ending film that was my childhood. They were a part of the backdrop, a silent yet imposing presence, crucial to the events surrounding me but never directly impacting my everyday schedule and activities. Because I lived close to the Fifth Precinct of the Police Department in Chinatown, I often caught glimpses of policemen at their most relaxed state: cracking jokes and strolling about with their partners, climbing out of or settling into their squad cars, taking notes and murmuring into their walky-talkies, and strolling into convenience stores for lunch and snacks. They would help tourists with directions, and direct little children to school.

My mother once told me a story about how the police had aided her. On one of her many walks with her first grade class, one of her students had tripped, fell, and cracked his head on the sidewalk. Blood came oozing out the nasty gash, and he understandably fainted dead away. The hospital was miles away, and the ambulance wouldn’t be able to come in another half an hour. My mother was besides herself with fear: fear for her student’s life, fear of her job position, and fear of backlash from the school and the student’s parents. Luckily, a police car was parked nearby and had witnessed the entire situation. Thanks to the power of coincidences, they were able to whisk him to the hospital in minutes.

On the flip side, because I live in close proximity to the detention center in Lower Manhattan’s City Hall, I often saw the police in their most serious and physically threatening state. Stark white and blue prison vehicles would often be parked near the local playground, and burly motorcycles and scooters would be lined up neatly along the edges of the police center. On the way to elementary school, I would sometimes come across police buses and vans with suspects and criminals clambering out of the backseats, squinting in the harsh sunlight. Most of the time, they would be merely handcuffed behind their back. If they partook in a more serious event, the individuals along with their partners in crime would be linked together with steel chains attached to their handcuffed wrists, their pants dangling precariously without their confiscated belts, means of preventing escape.

When I was five, I had my first action packed police-chasing-down-the-bad-guy experience on my way to school. As I was rounding the corner with my mom, a loud shriek shattered the peaceful morning. I looked in the direction of the raucous scene unfolding down the street. A thirty year old man had snatched the purse of a fifty year old woman, and the two subjects were tugging back and forth at the object of interest. The man eventually broke free from the lady’s grasp and began running full tilt away from the victim, the purse clutched roughly under his arm. The lady and her mother stumbled after him, arms flailing as they screamed for help. Strangely enough, the criminal was running straight towards the police station detention center. He was either extremely stupid, or he was new in town and had yet to get the lay of the land. Fortunately for the victim, the police were stationed by their vans and swiftly ran to catch the criminal, who had stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the extent of his blunder. The ladies eventually caught up to the criminal whom being handcuffed and began beating him up with their shopping bags. The cumulation of these two events gave me a rosy perspective of the police force throughout childhood and well into young adulthood.

The amount of policemen that appeared in public increased tenfold after 911. I would see cops guarding subway stations, stopping anyone with particularly large backpacks or handbags. I would see cops patrolling crowded areas, walking amongst pedestrians in casual clothing. I would see them standing next to government buildings, check in stations, bag check areas, barricades, and tourist attractions: posing threateningly in their full uniform and gear, their badges winking in the light. Since childhood, I have been more exposed to the social and political world, both the good and the bad new, the bias and the skewed reports, enough to know that not everything is black and white. Much of the news is true, and much of the news is manipulated through various extents to serve a specific purpose. Crime reports are often targeted towards a specific social, financial, racial, and ethnic background, and crimes against minorities of race, gender, and sexual orientation, and low social economic status are often glossed over in the news or are tinted with a certain bias and discriminatory action. People of majorities in terms of race, gender, and social economic status are often favored by the justice system, and not all is fair in the political world. On the flip side, sudden surges of rebellion lead to public persecution towards the police force, and social media play a big hand in featuring both bias and non bias actions by the police, criminals, and victims, adding fuel to the frenzy. Because of my position in society as a petite Chinese female, I am fortunately excluded from the majority of the “police brutality” events sweeping across the nation, bringing to light many unjust misdemeanors as well as unfair hate against the entirely of the police force because of the actions of a selected few. The public needs to always look at the bigger picture: we need to be critical, educated, well informed, and non-judgmental when dealing with tension-filled situations between public and government run institutions.

The MTA has been an essential and routine part of my life. The transit system dates back in my memory to the early years of childhood when my parents and I would take the N across the Manhattan Bridge to visit my grandparents and relatives in Brooklyn. They had emigrated from China to America when I was seven years old, and until then, I had never been to any other borough outside of Manhattan. All my subway trips were restricted to the darkness of the underground, penetrated only by the occasional waning light bulbs flashing through the velvety black tunnels, leading towards the inevitable fluorescent lighting shining over the yellowing tiles of the next stop on the train.

It was eye-opening the day I finally experienced a subway ride above ground. I remember clambering up to kneel on one of the plastic seats as the train slowly rose above the tunnel, gaining traction as it rumbled across the bridge. I remember staring in awe as the train climbed above ground, allowing the shiny windows of apartment buildings to appeared, flashing one by one across my peripheral view and creating a gigantic, panoramic picture of the Lower Manhattan skyline. Towering steel skyscrapers and luxury glass apartments with rooftop gardens was softened by weathered brick tenements and rustic churches crowded close together, surrounded by highways winding lazily across the landscape, with beetle-sized cars creeping slowly down the stretches of concrete, their shiny exterior and windows glinting in the brilliant sunlight. The monochromatic structures of brick, glass, and steel then gave way to the shimmering blue-green waves of the East River, winking like diamonds against the white-gold rays of the early afternoon, sprinkled with the occasional sailboat bobbing calmly in the waves or a speedboat cutting a foamy white path across the water. The view was beautiful enough that busy passengers chanced a look away from their cell phones: taking a moment to relax, easing the worries from their tensed expressions, and basking in the warm sunshine. Heading back home from Brooklyn to Manhattan, the fiery red-orange streaks of sunset gleamed across the gentle waves of the river. The warm gleam of the golden hour between sunset and dusk lit up the dust motes swirling around the train car. The scenic image and my hand tucked in my mother’s hand soothed me: the gentle rocking of the train in harmony with the quiet murmuring of the fellow passengers, the rustling of newspapers, and the occasional pop song bubbling jaunty notes from a passenger’s headphones. This was a regular slice of my happiness growing up, as comforting as a piece of chicken pot pie or a hot cup of tea. This moments of traveling created a period of peace and tranquility in the otherwise hectic hustle and bustle of the metropolitan world in New York City.

In the modern day as a college student, the transit system has become less idyllic and romantic. Because of its daily usage and necessity as a means of transport, train rides have been less of a journey and more of a sudden pause between the next obligated destination and the next responsibility I have to fulfill. It can be an annoyance at times when the trains are delayed or inch forward at snail pace, a nuisance when passengers cause a traffic jam in train car doors, and a tension-filled bubble when tired commuters snap at one another and moan for the unattainable “more space”. It becomes a waiting area where I anxiety await my next stop, my next goal, my next step in the strenuous process of university, discovering an occupation, and taking initiative to achieve those dreams. It becomes an interlude within the hubbub of life, a place where I can catch up on last minute work or a place to catch a few minutes of precious sleep. Day in and day out, it becomes easy to slip into the monotonous schedule of our daily lives, the subway being a necessary blip in the process. However, it can also pick you up from the boringness of everyday travel. Anything from a baby’s chortle or a child’s excited babble to a casual conversation with a fellow passenger, a fluffy puppy in a hand bag or a lanky dog tucked under a seat, or a sea of school children swarming onto the train car is exciting. The occasional break in the flow of quiet commute always brings an unstoppable smile to my face and reminds me of the days in which every train ride was as exciting as the last, a stimulator of new emotions and feelings, a detour of new discoveries and surprises.