"The wind was terrifying."
That is the first thing to say about our experience of the hurricane here in New Jersey. I am quoting a friend who started her sermon yesterday with those words. There were more faithful present than usual, not just because it was All Saints Day, or because the church had heat and light and many parishioners still did not, but also because it was good to be together with other humans in community. When you have experienced a hurricane, and the power is out in most of your city for a week, the city is dark and there is a 7 p.m. curfew and you hear sirens much more often throughout the night, it is good to be with other humans in daylight and warmth and familiarity.
Today, I returned to the classroom, at the university in New Jersey where I teach, for the first time since the storm. Classes were cancelled all last week, and just resumed today. Given the continuing lack of power in many places, the nearly complete destruction of public transportation infrastructure (which many students rely on to get to campus, as did I--not possible today), and the gas shortage, I did not expect to see a full classroom. But more than two thirds of my students were there, and I was very happy to see them. I think we all needed to feel like some part of our lives before the storm was coming back to something resembling our ordinary routine. And we spent a little time at the beginning of class talking about the storm, and the logistics of adjusting the syllabus and other matters due to the lost time. But the students did not want to spend much time talking about the storm. They wanted to get back to the subject matter of the course. So we did.
Still, it felt surreal. And just below the surface there is a lot of frustration and anxiety. There is another storm coming this week--students asked if they would close the university again. And there was an earthquake in New Jersey this morning--students mentioned this also (as in, "what is going on here?"). People talked about difficulties in getting gas, and how anxious they are about running out of gas. And being in the cold and the dark. So, "normal" is a long way off.
I found myself talking to everyone among the staff and faculty that I know today, even folks who I normally just say hello to, because it was so good to be back. And honestly, the campus suffered very little damage and looks quite normal. This is another part of what felt surreal, and what made me want to write this diary, because I recognized how off center I had been feeling all week, and how much that has had to do with the disruption of life in my neighborhood.
There was property damage in my neighborhood, but it was minor compared to other parts of the city. I live in Jersey City, in the Heights--and the name is descriptive, ergo we did not have any flooding in this part of the city. But major flooding happened in downtown Jersey City--we live by the Hudson River too (it's not just Hoboken and Manhattan that have that honor). And there was flooding on the west side also, next to the Hackensack River.
I was one of those lucky people who did not lose power, who had no damage to my home, my family is fine, the worst that happened to anyone I know personally is lost power, lost work hours, and people whose small businesses had to remain closed due to lack of power. So many people have suffered so much from this storm; the terrible, terrible loss of two small children and the racism that made it happen--an unbearable loss. (Read the diary. Watch the CNN report. You must). The loss of a whole neighborhood to flooding and then fire--though thanks to a combination of evacuation and first responders, minimal loss of life. The image of the Seaside Heights roller coaster in the ocean--associated as it is for many New Jersey residents with fond childhood memories. These losses are different from one another, are irredeemable, are part of the bitter taste of this storm that will always be with us. And they make me want to hold my family closer, relish my community more.
The power was out in much of the Heights until Saturday, and on the main business street, Central Avenue, until this afternoon (Monday). The city imposed a 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. curfew, only lifted today. And much of the city was dark at night. Our local police station was without power and running on a generator. This was extremely eerie, and both the curfew and the darkness meant that you really wanted to be safely in your home well before evening fell. And there were many ordinary things that were just impossible. Several evenings, I was standing on a street corner there at dusk, taking photos of shuttered shops and nearly empty streets.
I have not been back yet to Central Avenue, but heard from a friend this afternoon that the power is back on. I can't wait to go there tomorrow, to see the rhythm of my neighborhood start to return. To see all the people whose names I do not know but who are part of life in the neighborhood. To cast my ballot in my neighborhood school. To celebrate the vibrant life in this small city.
So I'll just end by telling you about the park on the east side of the Heights, the place where many of us come together to watch the fireworks over the Hudson on the 4th of July. And play on the playground. There are many trees down--still not removed by Saturday The old red brick gazebo collapsed, and over the ruins you can see Hoboken, and Manhattan from Battery Park on up to Midtown.
Not far from the downed trees and the collapsed gazebo, there was a pickup basketball game there on Saturday afternoon, a soccer game on the grass...the beginning of rhythms coming back, evidence of our need for community, for human contact.