I’ve always had a bittersweet relationship with the Bronx. Yeah, if you look hard enough you can find a big house that’s not too pricey, but landlords can get a little stingy when it comes to giving heat. There are galaxies of ethnic restaurants, but the best ones get raided by cops, every so often. Why live here, then? It’s cheap and you can get halal food at four in the morning.
It’s no secret that the Bronx is the redheaded stepchild of the five boroughs. The fact that it’s easier to commute from the Bronx into the other boroughs than vice versa proves this. The resources are scarce and the disadvantages are many, but after Sandy, I have a greater appreciation for the area.
Before the city fell apart, I have to admit that I was slightly entertained by the idea of a violent tropical storm spinning through Manhattan, washing away discarded cigarette butts, women walking their schnauzers, and pricey nightclubs dancing in a whirlwind, a la Dorothy’s house from “The Wizard of Oz.”
I envisioned skateboarders building rafts out of their decks, joggers practicing their backstroke in narrow one-way streets and investment bankers buying shares via smoke signal on skyscraper rooftops.
However, having now seen the destruction wrought by the storm and its rising death toll, my sense of humor now feels a tad tasteless. In my defense, I’ve seen my share of hurricanes as a southerner, so I’m unfazed by the idea of one menacing a city.
Another explanation, to which, I can attribute my schadenfreude, is the jabs and pot shots I get all the time from Manhattanites — and a minority of Brooklynites — at Lang and Parsons pleading that I should get out of the Bronx. “How long is your commute,” they’ll ask. “An hour and 30 minutes,” I tell them. “I bet you see some wild shit, right,” they’ll ask. “My train ride — which begins in Manhattan — is usually more notable than what I’ve seen go on in the community. Although, I do occasionally see this guy pulling a shopping cart full of scrap who reminds me of Bubbles from “The Wire.” That’s about it, though,” I tell them. They punctuate my answer with incredulity; I roll my eyes and shrug.
“You should move to the city,” they said, “You could just find five roommates and live in Brooklyn.” As ashamed as I am to gloat in light of this tragedy, I’m glad I ignored the advice of these metropolitan snarkers.
After seeing images of the wreckage in Breezy Point, Queens and Staten Island; lower Manhattan’s flooded subways; and hearing reports that residents were stranded in Brooklyn, I had no gripes with my borough for the first time. I mean, yeah, City Island and parts of the South Bronx didn’t fare all that well, but one can’t deny that the Bronx didn’t do too bad, comparatively.
It’s almost as if decades of rugged living, negligence from the city, and a hilly geography cultivated a resilience in the borough — a tropical storm is like surface nuisance for the area.
My neighborhood was without power, but the surrounding blocks were practically glowing — people were getting haircuts at my barbershop the next day. I took a (free!) bus to Fordham Road on Halloween and was greeted by trick-or-treaters, people were lined up outside of a welfare office like nothing happened, Fordham University lacrosse players sprinted past the welfare line, vendors tried to entice me with gold watches, and, of course, street preachers ululated panic and blamed “Babylon” for causing Sandy’s visit.
Ignore the uprooted vegetation and disembodied branches, and it was business as usual for most areas in the Bronx.
With the help of red wine, sake, and cheap Chinese, I was able to get through my nine-day weekend without power with some ease. It helped that I was able to charge my phone at Botanica — you never see these downtown as much — and check Facebook, the thread that kept me connected to the rest of the city, for news.
It was there that I heard that power was restored to lower Manhattan. And with that my winning streak was over. My borough was top dog for the first time, but Con Edison put everything back the way it was and I fell right into humility’s bosom. Manhattan was back to normal and I was still living in the Bronx. Only this time, my house had no power.