Carol Bergman

The aftermath of this horrendous, catastrophic storm reminds me of the days post 9-11. First there is the euphoria of mere survival—especially if we were fortunate enough to account for all our loved ones—then a stunned dream-state in which we tried to figure out what to do to help. I remember becoming active—volunteering with the Red Cross, walking miles and miles to various memorials, writing poems and reading them at memorials. Long before we were able to digest what had happened, the media informed us that we were living an historic event.

And now this storm. We are still living that history and will be for many months. Strange, that my NYU students are working on a “Witness to History” assignment this very week. That will be an extended effort, I am sure, as the term proceeds. But when will we see each other and where? The lower part of Manhattan, including the Washington Square area, has been amputated by a power outage and flooded subway tunnels leading in and out of the city. Some of my students live in Brooklyn and New Jersey. So, too, the NYU administration. When will they get back to work? When we will all get paid? What is their responsibility? What is our responsibility? The government’s responsibility—federal and local? The implications are filling my full to overflowing journal.

Nothing to do this morning but take a walk up to Sakura Park and assess the damage. I usually work there on Wednesdays with Hakim, an employee of the Riverside Park Fund, but he’s stuck out in Brooklyn.  Read More 

We are waiting for the behemoth storm to arrive, gaining strength and depth as it hovers off-shore nearly 400 miles. It’s noon New York time as I write, and down in the Caribbean the clean-up has begun in Haiti, Cuba and other islands. These are barely mentioned in the ethnocentric USA press. It’s hard to imagine a more dire place than Haiti and, by comparison, the privilege of living on the Upper West Side as a storm approaches. When will we ever go hungry? Still, I think of one or two items I am sure I need— yogurt, a cucumber—and, as the storm has stalled, I quickly get into my workout clothes and take a long, brisk walk up Broadway. The air is fresh, no pollutants. A light rain, a few gusts of wind. Up on 115th Street near the entrance to Columbia, a couple of overseas students are laughing at all the preparations and the intensity of New Yorkers. There are sandbags at the entrance to the Barnes & Noble. Whatever for? “This storm is not to be taken lightly,” I say. “The Hudson is just over there.” I point my finger in a westerly direction which makes them laugh even harder. Perhaps they are amused by my tousled hair and foggy glasses.

Crowds congealing on busy street corners, a grocery store open. The manager has trucked around Queens collecting his workers. But how will they get home if the bridges are closed? Maybe they will have to sleep in the store, one suggests. During 9/11, New Yorkers opened their apartments to stranded workers. I have heard no such offers today. Hard times harden the soul and the altruistic post 9/11 spirit seems to have dissipated, the shops brazen in their exploitation. Are the prices higher here today or is it my imagination? And why is everyone grabbing and pushing?

Children are fractious as they wait on line with their worried parents. A boy to his father: “Dad, will the wind be strong enough to topple the buildings?” And the father’s reply: “What do you think?”  Read More