That hurricane, the real one, later did a number on the lower end of Manhattan. I live on the upper end.
When
the storm picked up speed, with the sounds of sirens in the distance, my lights
kept flickering but they never went out. I was positive the wind gusts and
heavy objects slamming against my rental-property windows would break them. Today,
those windows seem stronger than they’d been the day before the surge.
I know how it feels to struggle through
acute hardship while you’re surrounded by people whose lives haven’t been
upended by the misfortune that’s struck you. It’s a strange feeling to be
surrounded by others’ acute hardship when you’re one of the people who’s been
spared.
I’m not viewing photos and videos
of a disaster zone in a land far, far away. My downtown (neighborhoods I’ve
grown to love) has been drowned and darkened, while I’ve been staycationing uptown,
baking loaves of banana bread and booking holiday-travel flights.
I didn’t live in NYC on 9/11.
Although these are obviously two profoundly different types of tragedies, I now
have a slightly better understanding of the emotional toll that first one took
on the locals and the energy that ensued. If anyone most engagingly represents
this strain of energy, it’s the trick-or-treaters – the ones dressed as heroines,
the ones dressed as villains - I ran into outside tonight. The exuberance of
their masses is as critical as it is contagious.