Pardon my language, but let’s start with first things first:
New York is, in a word, unfuckwithable.
A few weeks ago, Hurricane Sandy (Superstorm, whatever, I don’t really care) rattled my windows and my front door and my poor cat and some ginormous trees on Eastern Parkway but otherwise left Prospect Heights alone.
It destroyed large portions of some beloved New York places: Staten Island, Coney Island, the Rockaways, Red Hook. It left Lower Manhattan powerless for nearly a week. The subway system – which serves 8.5 million people a day - is just now back to normal (the G! the L train! Rejoice! Rejoice!!)
New York is a City with a Trial by Fire mentality. On Halloween, with no public transit available, I borrowed a bike and gave myself two hours to get across the Manhattan Bridge. I had not been on a bike in over a year (remember Ireland?) and was so petrified I was shouting to myself (“YOU CAN DO THIS”). There is something to be said for trial by fire; I believe “Ride or Die” was the first term thrown out. There was no other way to get to work, and there was no time, so my only option was to get on the damn bike and figure it out. And it’s funny how that saying goes – ‘it’s just like riding a bike’. Because I was absolutely petrified as I sped up Vanderbilt, and I definitely got lost trying to find the bike path onto the Manhattan Bridge. But at some point you find your stride – and for me that was all the way up Mulberry.
Riding across the Bridge
How bizarre to arrive in Manhattan and realize that really, truly, there was no power below 40th street. Sliding up Mulberry – normally packed with tables of tourists spilling onto the street in Little Italy – I found myself alone for more than fifteen blocks. It was at once eerie and beautiful, powerful and peaceful. It was in this moment that I actually said out loud, “I think… I think I am a New Yorker now.”
I arrived exhausted but victorious at the studio – texting those close to me “safe and sound at Sacred Sounds!” At the same time I arrived, emerging from the studio were some of my sweetest, warmest students. It was so lovely to gather with these souls by candlelight in the lobby, to learn what they were doing to stay warm, how they were entertaining their children, or where they were showering. Our students were so grateful for practice – regardless of the fact that there was no heat or electricity – and you could feel the energy of gratitude.
New York is a City that does not get knocked down. Take away our subways, Sandy? MTA will work around the clock, pumping water out of flooded tubes and fixing electric boxes and other things I don’t really understand. They gave us weird shuttle buses to take across the East River, and the person I unintentionally kneed in the chest on this weird shuttle bus just nodded and smiled and waved their hand when I apologized, because New Yorkers are cool with crowds (eventually this turned into some type of Party Bus, with the driver asking, “Where we going?” and all 75 of us screaming “Brooklyn!” ”No sleep til..?” ”Brooklyn!”) New Yorkers know that we are all in this together.
New York is a City that understands perspective. I have been asking friends, students, and patients over the last week, “how did you fare during the storm?” and the answer has consistently been “meh, we lost power for a few days. No big deal. It could have been so, so much worse.” Even my littlest students understood. I should know by now not to underestimate my kiddos, but I will admit I was surprised when they told me, “and we got to take baths with candles!! We were boiling water on the stove!!” They have approached a difficult week with novelty. New Yorkers are pegged the world over as complainers, but not once, in the hours, days, and weeks following Sandy have I heard anyone complain. In fact, the most common refrain has been, “how can I help?” Every single person I know in NYC – without exception – contributed in some way to Hurricane Relief efforts. Many of my friends – and especially my superstar boss – have gone to Staten Island and the Rockaways to demo, wash out mud-soaked basements, or pass out food, water, and blankets. I stood in line for four hours to donate blood – and not once did anyone in that line complain.
I am prouder than ever to call this wacky and wonderful place home. Because New Yorkers know how to face their fears. Because New Yorkers have been through Hell and back before and again and still keep chugging along.
But I am especially, especially proud of the fact that New Yorkers know what it means to take care of our own, with what we have and in whatever way we can.
If you are in New York and still looking for ways to volunteer, check out www.nycservice.org.
If you are outside of the Tri-State area (like my West Coast friends), please consider donating to the Mayor’s Fund to Advance New York, the Red Cross, or check out NYC Service to make an in-kind donation.
Take care of yourselves, and each other,
yogini and the (best) city
