Now that I am back home safe in my apartment this afternoon with heat, light, unlimited internet and a phone that works, it seems unfair that my “Sandy” experience will draw to a close when I know so many others are still suffering.
Half a dozen of my closest male friends remained downtown. Urban cowboys riding a snapshot of what a post apocalyptic world could look like. They texted me stories of subsisting on pancakes or whisky, growing beards and going for days without showers. They would trek to charge their cellphones at (marginally generous) NYU and hunker back down into their forts of darkness. As a nod to the New York-y shortening of consolidating neighborhood names (Soho, Nolita, Noho,) they began to refer to themselves as SoPo residents. As in: South of Power. My neighbor told me, there was a pride in toughing it out. This was their home, their people, their connection. They could not abandon ship.
Although unprecedentedly shut down for six days, downtown was nowhere near as traumatized as tragically and horribly victimized New Jersey, Staten or Long Island or parts of Brooklyn. There were people whose lives nearby were (and are) upended miserably. Some of the best humans I know—unfairly abused by the storm with friends and family coming to their rescue. People so wonderful it might beg the question: did it happen to them because they are so loved by the world, the world knew they would be resilient enough to handle it?
By comparison, I had it way easy. I was a fish-out-of-water midtown refugee, only dealing with a lumpy couch and a pair of 4-year-old twins for the better part of a week. In an effort to maintain taste, I’ll spare you a cheap toddler hurricane analogy.
But even so—Friday afternoon you could feel it. Even uptown, which was eerily and disturbingly business as usual while downtown was a ghostland, was getting edgy.
I was supposed to be headed to the West coast Thursday to see a bestie. My flight was postponed to Friday and I was a basketcase of nerves. Stress coursed through my veins and I was overwhelmed with a few mundane tasks. Everyone’s nerves were frayed. Foraging for food, searching for water. Taking care of others, or living on top of each other, in a city where you already paid through the nose to do so.
At one point, the stress was so overwhelming, I had to stop. Literally, I had to stop, lie down on the floor and coach myself. Because I wasn’t even doing what I teach other people to do. So I stopped, put on some music and prayed. I said: OK, show me what you got. Hit me, world. I don’t want to run from this, I want to feel this.
Five minutes later my host’s landlady came to the door. It was her apartment and an illegal sublet- a common practice in Manhattan. She had no power or heat or hot water either, and came to the apartment (where she was gauging someone else on rent) to charge up and shower, armed with empty water bottles to fill. Of course, come in.
Five minutes after that, chaos erupts. I am in a verbal brawl with this woman. I mean we are going at it. I am screaming, at a stranger. What? Who am I? What is this. I’m texting my generous host: Your landlady stopped by. I am screaming at her. What the landlady was saying was, in my estimation: wrong, illegal, rude and none of her business, not in that order of importance, and obviously she had been through a harrowing week as well– but still—here she was: a stranger, and there I was screaming. Like a lunatic. Not myself.
It was the collective consciousness of the city coursing through me. It was a sliver of the frustration, pain, that everyone was feeling and experiencing. It was connectedness to those around me, all of us wading through varying degrees of devastation whether they be desolation or inconvenience.
I found myself fiery with disbelief when someone on facebook complained of being stir-crazy. Angry when someone told me The New York Post’s “Page 6” reported downtowners such as Leonardo DiCaprio were taking over midtown hotspot Lavo. And then in the same breath, seeing we all dealt with emergency and stress in different ways.
My host grabbed my hand after the landlady incident and dragged me to a local barstool. Although it wasn’t so long ago, I couldn’t remember the last time I had had one, yet it seemed just the right time to order a Belvedere and soda at 1pm on a Friday afternoon. I relaxed in gratitude. What an indulgence. I wouldn’t be able to do this 15 blocks south. There are people in this world that will never be able to do this.
And within the stories of loss, pain and frustration– -this sort of disaster brings all to the fore, perhaps most importantly showing us what values most: True character shows in crisis. How did we handle it? How did those around us? Who checked in on you? Who did you reach out to? Is there a renewed sense of gratitude, relief, hope and surrender?
Is the fragility of this precious world (and our astounding prosperity as Americans in general) again at the forefront of our realization?
That we have it good.
That we are loved.
That we are connected.
And that this is all there is in this life.
I know I feel that. And I feel very, very lucky indeed.
****************************************
If you are looking for someplace worthwhile to donate, please consider Red Hook NYC recovers– a Brooklyn community-powered disaster recovery effort in a neighborhood home to many artists and demolished by Sandy.
xo peace
