Miracle on 34th Street
The pandemic has some billionaires declaring New York City dead. I guess that makes sense, given more billionaires live in New York than anywhere else and for those who have left, their departure is the end of the city as they know it. But, however loud their voices, they do not represent the true voice of New York.
This is not a rebuttal to the recent arguments, nor is it a thought piece on New York’s future.
This is a birthday card. Happy 75th Dad.
50 years ago my father landed at JFK airport on his 25th birthday. After making it through customs he dropped to the ground and kissed the concrete. I don’t recommend kissing the floor anywhere these days, but I share that story to demonstrate that back then simply getting to New York City meant that you “already made it.” Can you imagine that feeling? No greed, no rat race, no superficial bullshit — just pure love and gratitude for the opportunity.
His journey to New York started long before his 25th birthday and perhaps even before his birth. His grandfather in India was fascinated with the Roaring Twenties and said his dream was to come back in his next life to the homes of his grandchildren in New York City. I don’t believe in reincarnation, but maybe he got his wish — all of his grandkids (my parents, aunts, and uncles) and all of their grandkids (our son and his second cousins) live in New York.
My father’s parents used their entire life’s savings to buy his one way plane ticket to New York. All he had in his pocket when he landed was the quintessential $8 and the not so quintessential phone number of the parents of an American woman he met in India.
He called her parents and they took him in. Think about that: in 1970, an older white couple took in a turbaned brown man, whom they had never met, and gave him a place to start. This is the true voice of New York. This is the New York that has been instilled in me since birth and this is the New York that we instill in our son every day.
My dad’s first job in New York was developing film, for which he was paid $2.25/hour. For the young people reading this, back then cameras didn’t have phones and we put a roll of film in them. We dropped the roll of film off at a hut in a parking lot and came back a week later to get our pictures. Kind of like Instagram — but less insta and more gram.
In parallel, my father studied electrical engineering at Cooper Union, and eventually he was able to afford renting a one bedroom apartment with a roommate in Stuyvesant Town for $150/month.
I love my dad’s stories about New York City in the 1970s. For his first home-cooked meal for my mother, he bought spices from Kalustyan’s in Murray Hill — a neighborhood that would later be nicknamed “Curry Hill.” Also, I was surprised to hear that he was nervous to walk through Union Square after his first New Year’s party because people told him it was an “unsafe” neighborhood. Really? It’s similar to when I tell my wife, who immigrated to New York 15 years ago, stories about Times Square or the Meatpacking District in the 1990’s. It is hard to believe how many iterations this city has gone through and I know that we’ll tell future generations of New Yorkers about the one we are going through right now.
As an engineer my father worked on some of the most iconic buildings in the city and the world: the United Nations, the original World Trade Center, and the Jacob Javits Convention Center, to name a few.
My dad walked (and continues to walk) everywhere in the city, always admiring every building, every person, every story, every opportunity, and every dream.
I remember his tears on September 11, 2001. For all of us New Yorkers, the terrorist attack left a wound like no other, but for my father it was different.
On the one hand, so many precious lives were lost as the buildings (many of which he helped to design) collapsed and on the other hand there was a wave of violent (and in some cases deadly) hate crimes against Sikh Americans across the United States.
Despite all of that, he remained dedicated to New York, investing time, money, and energy to bring our city back to life.
I’ve lived in what is now called the Hudson Yards area of Manhattan for over 20 years. Our son tells his friends “my grandpa made that blue building,” talking about the Javits Center at the far west side of 34th street. There is a deep rooted pride in being part of that generational energy — from my great grandfather’s dreams to our son’s future. I think of it as our own “Miracle on 34th Street” — I live on 34th Street on the west side and my sister lives on 34th Street on the east side.
So is New York City dead? Maybe she is for those who never appreciated her in the first place. And when those people write about her demise, they are forgetting that her resurgence has always been on the shoulders of immigrants. They aren’t stretching their mind’s eyes to picture the immigrants who come here, take whatever jobs they can get, endure whatever racism people can dish out, and still come out with more resilience and profound love for our country. As the wealthy without roots leave New York, they make room for artists, entrepreneurs, and immigrants to change this ever-evolving city, and the world, forever. I have faith that this energy can never die.
As long as Lady Liberty stands in our waters, welcoming the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses who yearn to breathe free, we will be here waiting for more people like my dad — the true New Yorkers — thanking them every single day for saving and remaking our beloved city once again.
Happy Birthday Dad.
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