A love letter … To Hurricane Sandy

One year ago today, the East River swallowed the FDR like it was a children’s Tylenol. It crashed as a Hepatitis-laced wave into our basements. Our sewers backed up. Our electricity bled out. People referred to us collectively as “SoPo.” South of Power.

At the wine shop down the street, hundreds of bottles crashed down and spilled out in the world’s saddest midnight Bacchanal.

In my apartment, I peed by candlelight and looked at our bathtub, filled with water that was flickering in a disturbing blue glow. Outside, police cars began floating down Avenue C, their lights spilling a starker, scarier blue onto the chest-high floodwaters.

I thought about Katrina. About the aftermath. I thought about Hurricane Floyd in Charleston and the hours and hours we spent evacuating on the freeway. How I came back to find a rotten, disgusting fridge. We cleaned that sucker all night (my roommate puked twice from the smell) and then two days later, it was all for nothing. The whole house burned down because there was water in the wiring. I never dreamt that I would move north, only to have the storm of the century show up on my Zone-A doorstep.

We went to a bar that first night of Sandy around 11 p.m. And we went to a bar every single night after that. When you don’t have heat or power, you have a deep and abiding relationship with whiskey. I passed out on a mattress on a floor in Chinatown. I slept on a friend’s futon. I hiked dozens of blocks each day to cry on the phone to my best friend, only to hike back down and feel guilty because I had a flashlight and I had water. On my block, children in the housing projects were filling up buckets from hydrants they’d unscrewed themselves in the 40-degree, breezy mornings. They then hiked up 20 flights to manually flush disgusting toilets.

I got online in a hotel lobby, dozens of blocks from my un-livable apartment on the third night of no power and asked for help. I never imagined that friends and total strangers would donate what amounted to nearly $12,000. They would do it in less than six days. Local friends found me every morning (not an easy task when your only real means of communication is sidewalk chalk and just randomly bumping into each other) and we trekked to stores to buy an endless amount of blankets and batteries to distribute to those who were hurting worse than we were.

There are two moments that will remain in my heart forever from that 10-day stretch of urban camping. The first was a Lily Tomlin quote someone had written in Sharpie on a building. It read:

“I said, ‘Someone should do something about that.’ Then I realized I am someone.”

That quote inspired me to ask for help via crowd funding that third night. You are capable of fixing things yourself. Don’t always expect that someone else will do it.

The second was a conversation days later. My friend Angela Laino and I were in Key Foods at 9 p.m., buying a million pounds of groceries to make food for those in Rockaways – who’s devastation made ours in Alphabet City look like a single, kicked trash can. Angela looked at me and said, “I love this neighborhood. Hurricanes have made me realize how quickly what you love can be taken from you. We have to fight. Otherwise all the people and places we love in this neighborhood will close up or move away. And things will never be the same.” Then I fell apart crying. Right next to some Kraft singles.

It’s one year later today, and I have something to say. I want to send a love letter to Sandy.

Hey Hurricane Sandy,

You fucking sucked. I’m a writer at a loss for any no other way to put it. You were a giant, destructive, horrible super storm that killed people. You burnt down houses and destroyed families and made us all cry in grocery stores. You also provided the best week I’ve ever had in a city, anywhere in the world. I love Alphabet City so much, some days I can cry just thinking about it.

If you don’t protect what you love, it can be taken away from you. However, if it gets threatened and you fight back, sometimes you win. And when you win, those places, people and things then belong to you forever … in a miraculous way that nothing else can ever touch.

So, Hurricane Sandy, I want to say “I love you.” Thank you for giving me that realization, that connection to my home. Happy 1^st Anniversary …  you stupid, stupid bitch. I don’t miss you at all.

To people reading this … there are still humans in need. Please take five minutes and donate a few bucks to Occupy Sandy. Or – better yet – purchase this book #Sandy. The proceeds are going to those still struggling.

To everyone who donated to my fund, I’m eternally grateful. If you ever need me for anything at all, I’m 100% in your debt and ready to help.