Compiled and archived by Dollars & Sense Editors
Hurricane Sandy’s impact on the Northeast was so devastating that many people are still recovering a year later. The storm victims tell stories of searching for loved ones, rebuilding destroyed businesses and escaping floodwaters. These four New Yorkers talked about how Sandy affected them and continues to affect them to this day.
Located in Manhattan’s Financial District, 17 State Street is a 42-story building that houses commercial offices in industries ranging from software to insurance and serves as a workplace for many New Yorkers. When Hurricane Sandy hit in October 2012, the building sustained costly damages. Building Manager Deloy Stoll can recall the experience all too well.
Reporting by Brad Williams
Gary Griffith is a retired New York police officer, but it was his summer house in Brick, N.J., that took a hit. He discussed his Hurricane Sandy experience and where he stands now.
Reporting by Taylor Bilecky
One lesson that could be useful in preparing for future storm was the use of food trucks to distribute hot meals to the worst-hit neighborhoods. The co-owner of the Mexico Blvd. food truck, Jordi Louisa, talked about how he was able to join other food-truck operators to help out.
Reporting by Peter Bell
Just after the storm, Irina Bondartseva’s home in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, seemed fine, but she later found it would need four months of renovation.
Remembering Sandy in Photos
by Elisha Fieldstadt
Most New Yorkers can recount exactly where they were and what they were doing a year ago, in late October, during Hurricane Sandy and its aftermath.
On Sunday, Oct. 28, 2012, I was joking with my coworkers at Terri Cafe on 23rd Street about stocking up on “storm supplies”: vodka, chips and Netflix movies. Although most businesses were letting employees go home early to make the 7 p.m. deadline when the subways were scheduled to shut down, my coworkers and I were asked to stay until closing at 9 p.m. Terri was one of the few restaurants in Flatiron that did not close during Hurricane Irene, and the owners were hoping for a similar business-boosting opportunity.
While my friends at work were trying to figure out alternative ways to get home, I thought I was lucky because I lived only blocks away from the restaurant. I soon discovered that my proximity to both work and school, at Baruch College, might not be much of an advantage; when the power went out, I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to talk to.
I spent the remainder of Sunday night underestimating the storm. I baked “hurricane sandy sandies,” cookies made from almond flour to look like sand. I finished an article and got it in by the deadline. I worked on overdue homework and reveled in the rare possibility of free time.
I watched the storm’s progress on the news and texted my friends in other states to ask them if Sandy was being sensationalized there the way it was in New York. They said “Yes, but do you think they’re exaggerating?” I did — until the news went quiet when the electricity went out.
I spent the next few days in darkness, without heat and without hot water. I rode my bike to grocery stores on the Upper West Side to buy non-perishables, since the eggs and milk that I was told to buy had gone bad. I ate dry granola and PB&J for breakfast, lunch and dinner throughout the next four days. I trekked uptown to try to find a vacant outlet so that I could charge my phone and text my mom to let her know I was okay. I was okay … until it got cold. On Wednesday, the storm was over, but the electricity did not come back on for four days, and the temperature was dropping.
On Thursday, the subways started running, and my boyfriend was finally able to make the trip from Astoria, Queens, to provide much-needed company and an equally-needed hot meal. We headed north toward the power, toward the Thai restaurants. Hell’s Kitchen was twice as busy as normal, since the regular Chelsea crowd had flocked to the best nightlife alternative, while blocks away the lower half of Manhattan remained in the dark.
My boyfriend slept over that night and when we woke up in the morning, he decided it was too cold for me to stay downtown without heat. He would go back to Astoria and tell his roommate that I would be coming to stay with them.
But within an hour, my one chance to get out of my frigid, silent apartment was gone. My boyfriend’s roommate is a conservative Christian and he said he was uncomfortable with me staying over, even on the couch.
With 7 percent left on my phone battery, I called my mother to let her know that, contrary to what I had texted earlier, I would be staying in Manhattan. This required explanation and as any mother would, my mother got angry and used my phone’s remaining battery life to rant and say the word “hypocrite” several times. I should have been angry too, and I knew it, but I as too exhausted to feel much of anything.
On Saturday, the power came back on. I was no longer riding my bike in the cold to buy food or standing in bank vestibules to charge my phone. I was able to take a hot shower and cook hot food. After going to bed at 9 all week, out of boredom and to escape feeling cold, I remember being most excited that I wouldn’t miss that week’s SNL. I hadn’t laughed in days.
Of course, I knew others had it much worse. Although I couldn’t watch the news, I was sure the people who lived closer to the water were flooded. I found out later that evacuation centers were full of families forced from their homes. And after seeing destruction around the city, I imagined houses on the coast must have been pummeled; they were.
As the stories and pictures started flowing through my fully-charged phone, I realized just how fortunate I had been.
Many students in classes outside the journalism program posted about the storm. Here are some from a Macaulay Honors College class.
What follows is a large portion, unedited, of a blog post by Malynda Salamone:
November 11, 2012
On Friday night, my friends had power again and went home. Their suffering was done, but mine had only just begun.
The news was now paying more attention to Far Rockaway. I developed a relationship with the area since I moved my 67 year-old father to a nursing home one block from the boardwalk. Over the summer I loved making day trips to visit my dad and walk on the boardwalk wishing he could be there on the beach with me. At age 62, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and after two years taking care of him, I realized he needed more care than I alone could provide.
Before Sandy, the nursing home called me to let me know that they were not evacuating. They reassured me they were well-prepared, as they were last year for Hurricane Irene. The residents are on high floors and the facility has their own generators. I trusted their judgment.
In the days that followed, I heard nothing. There still is no phone or electric service in Far Rockaway. I figured he was fine and they just couldn’t call me for some reason or if something happened they would have called me. They call me when he stubs a toe, so I assumed that he was ok and in a day or two trains and phone service would be restored, or I could get over to see him.
I worried more every day. I didn’t recognize the Far Rockaway I saw on the news. The nor’easter was coming and I heard rumors nursing homes were evacuating. I started making phone calls. One place would give me the number for another and when I called they would tell me to call the first place that I had just called, if any one answered the phone at all.
A friend I met while caring for my dad manages a nursing home and she said they would not take him to a shelter in his condition and they should have his information somewhere accessible. She said no matter what, they should have called me, but they didnt.
A story in the Huffington Post said it was the city that gave five nursing homes in zone A in FarRockaway orders not to evacuate. On Saturday, The New York Times ran a similar story about nursing homes in FarRockaway.
The only resource I had to call was 311. No one answered anyplace they told me to call I. I was told you just have to keep calling and that sometimes you have to call a hundred times before someone answerers, no one did.
On Saturday, I finally got answers from the evacuation centers. They said everyone was gone but they didn’t know where they had gone. They told me to contact the Department of Health and Hygiene (DHH) and they would be able to tell me where my father is.
After several dropped calls and getting disconnected, I finally got someone on the phone. At this point, they don’t even ask for his name, just where he was evacuated from. They told me he is in a high school in Ozone Park. I was shocked, a high school. I start calling anyone I knew with a car that could take me there.
My dad has dementia but is relatively strong and healthy, but the faces of others on his floor flashed through my mind. I can’t see them lasting long in an environment outside a medical facility. I called my friend from the Ridgewood/Bushwick Senior Center to ask if she knew of anyplace he can stay after I picked him up. More calls back and forth trying to find a place with a “bed.” Unfortunately, many elderly people have been displaced, she is in crisis mode, yet somehow she finds a bed for my dad. Great! All I have to do is get to Ozone Park.
A friend will take me there since this is an emergency, but he is concerned about getting more gas. So to save gas I ride my bike to Brooklyn. Pedaling down Second Ave, through traffic on Bowery and up and over the Williamsburg Bridge the damp cold air stings my lungs, but I’m elated. I finally found him and have a safe place for him to go. I can’t wait to see him freshly showered, in his jammies and tucked into a cozy bed. My father can no longer speak. He wears diapers and eats liquefied food. I know he recognizes me and understands some of what I say, but he would not understand a crisis situation. I hate to think what he’s been through and just want to see him comfortable and safe.
I coast down the bridge full-speed and at the end I toss my bike in the back of the waiting van. I curse the open draw-bridge on Metropolitan Ave for slowing us down. We pass long gas lines that cause even more traffic. We’re almost there and I move the passenger seat back so he has more room. I can’t wait to see him and the look on his face when he sees me.
We arrive at the John Adams High School on Rockaway Blvd and all the gates are locked. I walk around the entire building looking for signs or some other entrance. Nothing.
I start asking people on the street as I dial DHH again. Someone tells me the evacuees are gone but to try the Red Cross tent-city a few blocks closer to Far Rockaway.
The closer we get to the water the worst it gets. Fallen trees, missing roofs and piles of debris line the street. It’s unimaginable what the storm must have felt like in Far Rockaway if Ozone Park looks this bad over a week later.
At a casino parking lot on Rockaway Parkway you can’t miss the Red Cross. There are dozens of police vehicles, tracker-trailers, and tents with kitchens inside of them. Moving vans have Red Crosses taped to them. The last thing on my mind was taking pictures but I wish I did because I never seen anything like it, and hope I never will again.
A police officer stops us and I tell her I’m desperately searching for my father. She says she hasn’t heard anything about evacuees but sees I’m not leaving until I speak to someone. She brings over a supervisor from the Red Cross. I tell him what happened and seeing the tears in my eyes, he hands me a bottle of water. He tells me to call evacuation centers I already called and no one knows anything. As a final attempt to help, he gives me the cellphone number of another Red Cross worker, who gives me the number to the DHH. At least I got some water.
At this point, both of our cellphones are almost dead. I text on one and make calls on the other. A smart phone isn’t very smart when you’re on hold for the Red Cross and your battery is dying. I make a mental note to buy a military issue cellphone, a wind up USB charger with a radio and a tracking device to attach to my dad.
I speak to the cop again and she tells me to call the precinct if I can’t find him, which I do. The precinct says the evacuation centers are closed and the patients from nursing homes were sent someplace else, but the police department keeps no records of where people are sent.
My friend wants to go home. We don’t know where else to go. The streets are clogged with emergency vehicles and we start to drive back toward Brooklyn. I would drive around to each possible place, but it’s not my car, and we can’t get gas.
How can this happen? I call 311 again, I call the DHH again. The DHH takes my name, my father’s name and actually returns my call. I’m shocked when they say they located him and he is in a nursing home back on Rockaway Blvd. I call immediately and they tell me he is not there but they know the place where he definitely is. I call the next place and they tell me he is not there but to call another place where he must be, he’s not there.
I call DHH again, but now their office is closed. I call 311 again and they tell me to wait until tomorrow or file a missing person report. There is nothing they can do. Defeated, I take my bike home on the subway. I’m too tired to ride.
I think about Sandy’s aftermath and its consequences. My business is out of business because of the gas situation. I’m behind on homework. I just wasted an entire day for nothing. I don’t understand how this could happen. I hope I find him tomorrow, if DHH is open tomorrow, or Monday.
As I write this post, I watch the phone and twitter. Other people’s dads are missing too. Check out @rockawayhelp on Twitter
I found him.
November 13, 2012
Sunday Morning we began making calls again. The DHH gave me the name of the same nursing home in Carnarsie. I called and they said he was not there but at a different building a few blocks away where they have adult-day programs. They transferred me and the receptionist said he wasn’t there, but she would check to see if he was at the shelter in basement. He was there.
Minutes after speaking with the DHH a nurse called to tell me where my father was, what a coincidence.
When I heard the word “shelter” images from Katrina flashed before my eyes and I wanted to get him out of there. I planned to take him from the shelter to the respite center but when I arrived, I was surprised how pleasant the place was.
A receptionist walked me past the dining room full of adorable seniors slow-dancing to live music. This was one of the fanciest adult centers I have seen. Most are non-profits that have to fight for the small amount of funding they receive every year.
When he saw me he shot straight up in his chair, his eyes got huge. He can’t talk but he laughs. His eyes and his mouth were wide open. I gave him a big hug and he just stared at me, he speaks with his eyes. He always was a nice guy but this illness has made him less inhibited, and more of what he already was.
A lot of people say their dad is the best, but mine really is. The nurses always say he is their favorite resident. Most likely they say that to everyone, but he really is that sweet and lovable so I believe them.
Since he has been in a nursing home he has had countless girlfriends. He loves music, especially country and a beautiful ballad could bring him to tears. He often hums along hitting all the high notes. His memory isn’t what it used to be, but he remembers songs like a living jukebox.
Two caregivers from his nursing home were there and I asked what happened. One woman said the water on the first floor came up to her chest and that the ocean and the bay overflowed and became one body of water. The entire Rockaway peninsula was underwater. The first-floor generators failed because they were submerged. She covered her mouth with her hand and eyes filled with tears when she told me she is living in a shelter with her family. She is taking care of people in a shelter and living in a shelter. I’ve watched these women take care of my father for two years and I want to help them but I don’t know what I can do. The nurses believe everyone will be going back to Rockaway next week when they get the power back.
I had planned to take my father with me and asked about discharging him. I spoke to the manager from the nursing home and she said they did try to call me but couldn’t get through. The week of the storm, my cell phone service was terrible. I’m sure they tried to call. He was taken to Brooklyn Tech, never John Adams. If I chose to discharge him I would have to wait until Tuesday to get approval and new prescriptions. There is a risk that if I take him out, they may not take him back.
Nursing homes don’t want people like my father because he is too young and active, and has dementia. Most are at full capacity and have an evaluation process before they accept a new resident. Two previous nursing homes sent him to the emergency room in an ambulance and made it clear they did not want him back. Once he was so over medicated he had to be placed on a breathing machine. This is the first place where he has had no issues and is well cared for. I decided it wasn’t worth the risk of moving him.
No one could have anticipated how devastating Sandy would be and I’m glad everyone from his residence is safe. I still believe the city did an excellent job considering the circumstances.
I just wish my father could tell me what happened.
By Lindsay Calleran
While millions of city dwellers were hiding from Hurricane Sandy, Edmond Bimpong drove straight into it.
Bimpong, originally from Ghana, has been a taxi driver in New York for “17 stressful years,” he says. While most employers instructed New Yorkers to stay home on the Monday of the storm, Bimpong had to decide for himself – and it came down to how much money he was willing to lose.
Bimpong lives in the Far Rockaways, where a mandatory evacuation began Sunday night. “I was able to sneak in,” he said, “through back roads. They barricaded everything. The highways – you know? If it gets really bad, I’ll stay in Manhattan. If it’s not so bad, I’ll go to Queens with a friend. I’m not going back to the Rockaways.” But he did go to work.
In the complicated design of yellow cab employment, Bimpong is what he calls a “weekly.” For many drivers, the days of owning your own cab are long gone, as the price of a medallion is more than $1 million. Instead, drivers lease a cab by the shift, day, or week from one of the millionaires who buy up the medallions. In Bimpong’s case, he leases every week and shares the taxi with another driver.
“Today is supposed to be a double shift for me,” he said of the Monday of the storm. “So whether I work or I stay in, I have to pay.” NYCityCab.com lists an average weekly lease at $1,500. Bimpong and his partner have seven days to reach that number and, if they double it, to come away with $750 each. Natural disasters such as Sandy threaten their chance at that pay off – and taxi owners aren’t offering their sympathies.
“They don’t care,” Bimpong said, “because you’ve paid them the lease already.” Bimpong said no percentage of the lease would be reimbursed because of Sandy or any natural disaster. Asked when he planned to stop work on the stormy Monday, he replied, “When it gets bad! Every passenger today asks me that same question.”
Bimpong is also a licensed nursing assistant, for whom an average annual salary is $24,645, according to AllNurses.com, but he says he prefers taxi driving because of the chance of higher income. But Bimbong is often disheartened by days like stormy Monday.
“Every year I quit,” he said.