This week marks the one year anniversary of one of the East
Coast’s greatest natural disasters of our time, Hurricane [et. super storm]
Sandy. Growing up at the very end (on the water) of Breezy Point/the Rockaways,
we always joked that the peninsula wouldn’t survive a natural disaster, as it
is extremely vulnerable, but we never thought it would actually happen.
Breezy and Rockaway were our own little slice of heaven;
close enough to the city that it was easy to get to but far enough away that we
were not overrun with tourists; a beachfront community where neighborhood ties
go back generations and the cure for anything is to sit on the beach and watch
the waves, no matter the time of day or season of the year. Our beach culture was something a lot of
people couldn’t understand just through the news coverage alone; it was
something that was ingrained in our souls, the very fiber of our beings fed off
the feeling of sand under our feet, the hot kiss sun on our skin and the smell
of ocean in our noses . We were a
tightknit community where everyone knew each other, kids stayed out playing
manhunt in the street or skateboarding around, you work in the same places you
hang out in, you get your first job young and summer days are spent
unquestionably at the beach no matter how hungover or tired you are. Life is just different there. It is a secret little paradise in an ever
bustling city. The one thing we get to
keep quiet and to ourselves, New York’s best kept secret.
Any time there was a tragedy, our town would band together
and console one and other. It didn’t
matter if the tragedy was nationwide, if they knew you personally, or if maybe
it was just a fellow townie in need, you would never be alone. This was the kind of town I grew up in. There was always someone there when you
needed them, even if you couldn’t thank them by their name. Our little peninsula and its cohabitates were
put in a time capsule, right out of something like Meet the Beavers, where everyone is so polite and every parent
scolds you on your manners regardless of if you’re their child. The friends you make when you are little are
the friends that your children will call aunt or uncle, and that is just the
way it goes. Our peninsula was forgotten
to be existed by all the world, unless it was our St Patrick’s day parade, in
which every Politian felt the need to come down and kiss our babies, as if they
do anything for us. We don’t need you
coming to our side of the world for your photo-ops; where are you when the sea
was swallowing our town whole?
Everyone lost something when Hurricane Sandy blew through;
possessions, homes, memories, security, everything. But the residents of Breezy Point, The
Rockaways, Howard Beach and Cross Bay lost something most great to us . . . our
innocence. Not only were we now without
homes, the daily comforts we took for granted and countless priceless belongings,
but we were now exposed. Our private,
safe, quiet little hometown was now plastered all over every newspaper,
television screen, or any other platform it could be. Our private oasis was now destroyed and open
for everyone to see. A place no one has
ever heard of was now shown around the world at its very worst. Yet, like we always do, as the true underdog
town that we are, we rose. It was a hard
thing to come back from, that Sandy, but we are resilient, we are durable, and
one thing is sure about our peninsula is you can never keep us down for long
because you can never shake the sand from our souls. While living on a beach front community
always comes with its dangers, there is nowhere else we would rather call home.
The violent and moody mistress of the ocean will always sing our name, calm our
soul and carry us home; we are strong.
