Memories of Hurricane Sandy
My main memory of Hurricane Sandy is of being hounded from room to room by my family before finally taking up residence in the bathroom and living in the tub for about a week.
I remember trying to run outside before the storm made landfill proper and literally being blown back inside from the force of the wind. My mother came home with enough groceries to feed a small army and we all took showers, buckled down, and waited. We were lucky–we didn’t lose power–and I wasn’t terribly good at being afraid of the storm. I was more afraid of exacerbating my family’s already acute cabin fever. So I tried not to interact with them more than was necessary and curled up in the bathtub with a few of my favorite books and a healthy supply of flashlights, in case we lost power.
In retrospect, I’m quite grateful I didn’t have a smartphone or laptop back in eighth grade. Ignorance truly is bliss when knowing more only grants you a better understanding of your own helplessness. The landlines had to be kept open for emergencies as well, so there was no real way for me to find out how badly the storm was treating my friends.
After about a week, the storm abated and the schools reopened. Most of my friends hadn’t been hit as hard, and the ones who had lost power stayed at other friend’s houses till they were back on their feet. There were a few jokes about how it took a hurricane to finally clean up the Jersey Shore, and then life went on.
My Hurricane Sandy Experience (Lower Manhattan, Chinatown)
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.
My Hurricane Sandy Experience
Living in the Lower East Side meant that when Hurricane Sandy hit, I felt the immediate effects of the storm. There was little to no damage done to my neighborhood, so all I remember was being out of electricity for a week. The power grid was down for the city below 30th Street, and both subway and buses were out of service. Although we had our phones, we had no power source to keep them alive; I remember filling with dread each time my battery’s percentage dropped. Communication was limited, and we had to pull out a battery-operated radio to keep up with the news. All activities had to be done during the day, where the only light source was the sun; since we didn’t know when the power would return, we had to ration our candles carefully. I remember eating dinner in the dark, huddled around a few candles with my parents as we ate food we could barely even see.
For the most part, my parents encouraged me to stay at home; since the stairwells in our building were windowless and steep, it was of utmost importance to bring a large, bright flashlight to light our way as we went down. I ended up going outside at some point for whatever reason and heading into the outskirts of Chinatown. A few restaurants were still open, running on their backup generators. Here and there, we could see lines where people paid to charge their phones and other electronics. In several parts of the neighborhood, there were people who came by to give out water and food to people who had not prepared well enough for the aftermaths of the storm.
I didn’t really feel the effects of Sandy until after the MTA allowed buses and trains to run once again. I recall that we could get on the buses free of charge, and I seized the opportunity to visit a Barnes and Noble further up in midtown to charge my devices. I realized that for most of New York City, life went on. People were just sitting around in the bookstore, just living as they normally did. Meanwhile, I was finally connected to the Internet and saw the devastation in surrounding areas. For some of us, the week that school was cancelled for Hurricane Sandy was just another break. For others, including me, that week was an inconvenience. For even others, Hurricane Sandy was a disaster whose effects are still felt today.
Public Places Central to our Existence
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.
My Favorite Public Place
There is a rock in Central Park right next to the entrance of Heckscher Playground that I have deemed as “my own.” For obvious reasons, I cannot actually lay claim on it, but it is one of the best-structured rocks in Central Park. Since the rock is situated next to the public bathrooms and is not tall enough to oversee any particularly beautiful views, tourists do not frequent it often. One side of the rock is fairly smooth with a shallow slope, which makes it easy to climb up to or down the rock. However, making one’s way up mandates the most basic of agility skills, so my rock is not exactly open to all of the general public. In addition, the proximity of my rock to the playground means that any children and toddlers who dare to venture up the looming mountain (in their eyes, anyway) do not stay for long; there are more exciting adventures to be had within the play area.
Aside from the location and structure of the rock that make it convenient, the rock is quite the vantage point for people watching. Heckscher Playground is a five-minute walk from the entrance of the park at 59th Street West, which means that the path that my rock overlooks is often filled with foot traffic. Personally, I enjoy watching dog owners and dog walkers, simply because I prefer watching dogs to staring at humans. Even if there is nothing to look at, however, it is always serene just to sit on cool, hard ground several feet above everybody else. On a moderately cool day, there is something about just sitting there with a friend, or even alone, that makes the rock almost cozy to be on. My rock provides just enough solitude without being completely isolating, and offers a decent view of nature without being completely silent. All in all, I think that such a spot is perfect for a New Yorker like me.
Oasis: My Favorite Public Space
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.
Memorable Police Encounter
Growing up in the Lower East Side, I witnessed a few police interactions, but the police presence in my neighborhood was not particularly rampant. Perhaps my closest encounter was in high school, when I was leaving my apartment to go to school. I was waiting for the elevator when the door opened to reveal a pair of police officers holding a man against the wall of the elevator, hands cuffed behind his back. It was quite the shocking view in retrospect, but it was early in the morning at the time and I was too tired to really register what I was seeing. The two policemen kindly told me to take the next elevator and I groggily abided. When I reached the ground floor of the building, I could see the two officers loading the suspect into the back of their car, and I resumed my day like nothing was different.
When I walk past police officers on the streets or in the subway stations, I don’t feel an immediate threat to my own safety. Like many people, however, I am slightly more wary of their presence than I should be, since their job is to protect and serve. This is possibly due to the fact that I have always been taught that they are figures of authority, so I am more aware of my own actions and behaviors when I notice that they are around. I try to “act normal,” even if I wasn’t doing anything particularly sketchy before I came near them, and I try my best not to look suspicious (usually probably looking even more suspicious in the process). In light of more current events, there is even more tension around police officers. Although it is true that there are a few bad cops out there, I think it is important to note that the news only reports the bad. It’s possible that I speak from a biased and privileged standpoint, but it’s true that kindness is not documented as often as crimes. People don’t go through training just to gain a badge to wave around, and it’s important to remember that the general intention of the police force is to protect and serve.
Assignment 2: Encounter with the Police
Throughout my life, all of my personal encounters with the police have been pleasant – to say the least.
Although I often claim that my hometown is Jamaica Estates, Queens, my actual home is located in Bellerose Manor, on the border of Northeastern Queens and Long Island. However, what I never choose to share when asked about my hometown, is that I grew up just a quick walk away from one of the internet’s “Top Haunted Asylums in the Country”: The Creedmoor Psychiatric Center.
When I was about ten years old, my sister was attending a small liberal arts university in Rhode Island. Since she had visited New York for the weekend, my parents and I were then dropping her off to catch the Peter Pan Bus at Port Authority. This was a simple, routinely Sunday morning: Wake up at 7 am, drive into midtown, beg my mom to buy me Starbucks or Jamba Juice while impatiently waiting for my sister’s bus, and happily sipping on the newly-bought drink on the way back home. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Excited to go back to sleep and do ten-year-old things for the rest of my Sunday afternoon, my parents’ sedan pulled up to our usual parking space. Instead of the usual quiet of the suburbs and empty parking space in front of our house, multiple police cars and an ambulance unexpectedly greeted us at our door. Not knowing what to do, I remained in the car as my parents spoke to the officers.
This scene at my door was nothing short of a horror film or nightmare. A mentally ill patient from the Psychiatric Center had escaped, and had been consistently banging on my front door, desperately trying to break it open. He claimed that my house was his own, and that his wife and children were in the house waiting for him to come home. Luckily, my neighbors called the police just in time.
While none of my other experiences have been as severe, they, too, are memorable. For example, on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, a passing police car noticed that the cars of the funeral party were following each other to the cemetery, so the officer at the wheel graciously momentarily blocked off the road so that we were able to follow consecutively.
While I am aware that prejudice exists in all forms of all occupations, all of my experiences with police and law enforcement have resulted in kindness. For that, I am ever grateful.
Memorable Police Encounters
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.
Encounters with our Officers of the Law
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.
