In Stories, secrets & dreams on November 29, 2012 at 4:01 pm
January 1, 1966. Me, Jeff, I’m seven years old. This day was a historical one. It was the first day of what will go down in history – it was the first day of a twelve day long transit strike. It would go down in history as one of the longest. It stranded New Yorkers by not running buses or trains. It would also come to my mind to strike, especially when I saw my big brother constantly getting away with murder and I never caught the same benefit.
So, I went on a strike. I told my Mom and Dad that I was going to strike against tyranny. Just as I said that a bulletin came on Channel 5 about the strike. My Dad tried to talk to me about the strike and along with my Mother tried to negotiate to reach an agreement, but I did not budge. Finally, at dinnertime, my Mother made one last attempt to get me to end this strike by reaching an agreement. She made my favorite dish: lentils and rice, a Syrian dish that she had a good knack for making. After I ate, we negotiated. At first I balked, then she put another heaping bowl of this rice masterpiece in front of me.
The end result: NYC Transit Strike 12 days; my strike 4 hours. It was a lunatic way to act but, some kid had to do it.
In Poetry on November 15, 2012 at 9:23 pm
Listen, but cautious – flow of words to correlate to topic at hand.
Regulate your breathing motion.
The hanging stars when day is done
Night to slumber, like clouds of joy –
Sometimes it rains on your parade, but hope remains.
Bright is the light, to rejoice in a rainbow’s colors
To contemplate a budding rose, when spring comes upon red clay hillsides
Some tomorrows would take form.
Somewhere or other, two sisters gain favor
True colors inhabited the area, mama said so.
Early morning when I arise, before the day begins, when I start each day in prayer
Hope is a strong tool, our creator keeps our hopes alive
Success and failures are real
Hope for things that life can’t steal – love.
In Guest stories on November 8, 2012 at 9:41 pm
Of all the days a storm should hit, it hit on a Sunday. Everybody was worried about the outcome – for me it was just another day. Before Sunday I had started to downsize on my stuff. Not because of the hurricane, but because it was getting heavy to carry around all that stuff in my cart. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is George, and I’m a person without a home. So when the storm hit, I would have been happy in some way not to lose much in the sense of material things.
I had enough to eat, lots of water, and a warm coat. That Sunday at about 7pm I started saying, “no big deal, I’ll ride this one out like I did the others.” A group of us were congregated in an office building on 37th Street. We were there when the rain started to fall, until security advised us to leave, fearing the windows would fall out and some of us would get hurt. Around 10pm we started for another place. When we got there the place was jammed with people looking for somewhere to stay, so we had to find another place. Let me tell you…life on the street isn’t easy. You have to remember when you see a place during your daily walks, and refer to it when you need it. I had seen somewhere near MOMA, and thought it would be an excellent place to stay sometime – not necessarily for the storm, but somewhere to have a night’s rest.
So we ended up there late Sunday until about 7am Monday morning. McDonalds and Burger King were closed because of the storm, so we had no coffee. We did without it and ate some cold pizza that a tourist had given us. They were staying around the corner at the Hilton hotel. Then the wind started, and the rain, so up until Monday night we had nothing to eat until a lady came by with some sandwiches. She lived on 51st and was looking out her windows and saw us, and decided to be neighbourly.
This was one of the worst experiences so far that I have experienced on the street. That’s my account of Hurricane Sandy.