A Post-Sandy poem-of-sorts

Hurricane Sandy was bad - and eerily familiar.

Three years ago, my hometown in a Queens-cusp-of-Long-Island location got struck by a three minute “microburst” that lead to a lack of power for seven days. I also lost a bunch of my favorite parks and trees. 

A couple of months later, Queens got hit by another “microburst,” which seemed very much like a tornado. My friends and I got stuck in transit for six hours. We ended up taking a limo with nine strangers back home and stopped at a Spanish deli in Sunnyside to use the restroom.

Last year, Irene hit and my family lost power for ten of the most humid days of Summer. At least we had gas to fuel our car, facilitate our commute and charge our cell phones.

Post-Sandy, it took fifteen days for my family and friends to get their power back. What’s more, there was “no gas, nowhere.”  Where there was, cars lined up for miles wasting their remnants of fuel to get more gas. Strangers shot each other dirty looks, holding onto their red canisters for dear life. I experienced a moment of disbelief when I naively asked a man if I could borrow his red canister to fill up my car with the slightest amount of fuel. He replied, “What about me?”

Did I mention Sandy’s cousin Athena hit two weeks later? No power. No heat. No fuel. No water - but an ice-cold blizzard to welcome the Christmas season! Seems like I’ve experienced a lot since my immaculate conception as a New Yorker - and I didn’t even begin to discuss my life as a ten-year-old pre- and post-9/11. 

Story by Andrew Tess