The Reality of Essential Workers in NYC — Nobody is coming to rescue you
As a reasonably new resident of New York, I watched first with interest and then dread as life in our new city became quieter and quieter. First we were asked to work from home, then gradually sports competitions were cancelled, museums were closed, and finally bars and restaurants shuttered and, in some cases, boarded up. Now, walking or riding around the city has overtones of a apocalypse montage — empty streets, billboards still lit up and the occasional lone soul staggering along, muttering to themselves.
Three weeks ago, it was strange and disquieting as we rode around on city bikes on what we knew would be our last normal weekend for a while. New York that day was almost achingly pretty, as we rode along Battery Point and up to the Lower East Side with a friend — it was a cold but sunny day and the sight of elderly and frail people, previously unnoticed, was an arresting sight, with the awareness that many of these would not survive the coming months.
The whole of the city seemed on edge that day, and those having lunch in restaurants or sitting in the winter sunshine were subdued, seeming to know that they should really be inside at home, preparing for what was to come. People have since referred to this as a kind of anticipatory grief — a sense of loss for something that hasn’t yet happened, but that pervades your emotions and sense of reality. All the things that newcomers love about New York — the vibrancy, the sense of possibility, the energy — felt wrong that day, like it was the wrong place and wrong time.
We went home as soon as we could and sequestered ourselves in separate corners of the house, bunkering down for the evening in preparation of many more. I couldn’t put the thought of all those elderly people out of my mind — they all seemed so alone and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t yet grasped, and the beauty of the day was equally perplexing — when disaster is approaching, shouldn’t the sky be a foreboding grey, and shouldn’t we be jumping into action and making preparations instead of enjoying a relaxing Saturday?
When we first moved to New York last July, the biggest difference I noticed straight away was the wealth inequality — people earning ludicrous amounts of money sharing space with those earning the minimum wage or just working for tips. The meritocracy was alive and well in NYC and it was all about the hustle — cost of living being so high, and competition so intense, you had to have several things on the go to feel like you were getting ahead.
This level playing field was clearly a myth, when consultants and tech people were earning upwards of $200k for highly skilled jobs, and a friend with 3 jobs was barely paying rent for a room in Queens — but at the time it seemed to be working out okay most of the time. The haves co-existed with the have-nots, the peace kept perhaps by the belief that wealth and security were attainable, if you only worked hard enough, attained fame somehow, or got lucky and hit the big time with your side hustle.
In the last couple of months, that gap has widened drastically. Now, those on the front line — essential workers, delivery people, concierges, grocery store workers — are in the line of fire, literally. They don’t have a buffer and have no choice about whether they go to work. The other big, unspoken elephant in the room is that these industries are mainly comprised of people of colour — mainly Black and Latino. This is another aspect of the stratified social system that exists here that most locals are blind to — that it is extremely unusual to see a white person packing groceries, opening your door for you, drawing your blood or parking your car. It was stark to us when we first arrived, but now we barely notice it.
In Australia, the gap between haves and have nots has always existed — mostly to do with education and family support, as well as ethnicity — but it rarely tipped over into true poverty. The people I saw in Australia who were deeply disadvantaged had a legacy of intergenerational trauma and mental health issues, but there was some kind of scaffolding there within the public system — an acknowledgement by the government of at least some responsibility and desire to reduce suffering, even if to attempt to do this is expensive and complex. The sense I have in New York is that it really is about fending for yourself — there is no safety net, no buffer, and if you’re unfortunate enough to end up needing public services or welfare, things might get marginally better — but life will still be a painful, ominous grind.
In other news, apparently most of the ultra-rich have already left New York — their 5th avenue penthouses empty, their families fleeing to the Hamptons and the Adirondacks to bunker down for a few months in the idyllic surrounds. This leaves the somewhat-comfortables (of which I count myself), the New Yorkers I see walking their dogs nervously around our neighbourhood in Chelsea, in surgical masks and disposable blue gloves. Even the dogs look nervous, sometimes wearing shoes and always blinking nervously at the now-silent streets and sparse pedestrians.
Vast swathes of professionals have moved to remote work, probably annoyed that our expensive bootcamps have moved online and our snacking has reached new heights — the foyer of our doorman building is full of Wholefoods and Amazon Fresh boxes — comically piled behind the valet’s desk and to the side of the door. I’m both relieved to be part of this soft and cared-for segment of the population, and also deeply guilty that I can’t do more to help the people who have less choice than me.
Yesterday I went to give blood — a generally routine thing to do in Australia, but pretty anxiety provoking in a new city during a pandemic. I had carefully chosen the earliest appointment on a Monday, hoping the whole place would be disinfected overnight and I’d be the first in. It is possible that my boredom and lack of social contact for the past week made me less apprehensive about venturing out, and I’d weighed up the risk of possible exposure and decided it was worth it.
Five minutes into my appointment, I realised I should probably have stayed home. The workers here were burnt out and jaded — most weren’t wearing masks or gloves, and the woman at the front desk barked at me to remove my face mask so she could hear me more clearly. As usual, all staff were people of colour except one white doctor, and everyone seemed completely exhausted and broken. The next woman who checked my blood pressure also didn’t have a mask, and gently teased me about my own handmade version. She half-heartedly called out to another nurse for some sanitary wipes for her hands, only to be told there were none left.
The appointment itself was fairly standard — I suspect blood donation is much the same the world over — but it was jarring how exposed the employees were. In the middle of a pandemic, in a job where they are exposed to hundreds of people each day, in the medical field, there was no protective gear for them — meaning they could easily catch the disease, or pass it onto their patients.
The overwhelming sense I got there was one of tired resignation — the sense that if they had to be at work, they were probably going to be infected — so why bother taking time consuming precautions? The kicker is that people here need their jobs to access health care, and by refusing to come in to work unprotected, they risk terminating their employment, and thus surrendering their right to free healthcare — not a great choice when living in a disaster zone in the middle of a pandemic.
I was struck with that familiar guilt i’ve felt a lot since moving here, as well as a number of other feelings — part of me being outraged at the poor processes and standards, part being annoyed and hurt by the outright rudeness of people in service roles, another part feeling despair and sadness for these workers who have no other choice but to be here, in a dangerous situation and with little or no support.
I deeply regretted making the appointment— feeling like if I were to contract COVID-19 and infect my household, this would definitely be where it happened — but also feeling at a loss, since maybe I should return since this was one way I could actually help. The key factor here is that I had a choice about whether I return to give blood again — and part of what was crushing these people’s spirits was that their choices have been so completely eroded.
My husband and I have been living overseas for almost 4 years now — in Tokyo, Croatia and Portugal. All over we joke about the expats we meet who complain incessantly about the bureaucracy in their chosen new country, with the underlying message that their own country of origin is superior in so many ways. I definitely don’t want to be that expat, but in the last few months I’ve found myself deeply glad to be Australian.
My pervasive shame about our treatment of refugees and Indigenous people still remains — but I also have a new appreciation for the protection and support that is offered to its people, and the sense of safety and generosity that this engenders in us and the way we move through our lives — its a kind of security that can’t quite be quantified, but you know it when you feel it, and you can keenly see its absence.
That afternoon I again braved the outside world (gloved and masked) for a run along the Hudson river up to Pier 90, where the US Navy Ship USNS Comfort had just docked that morning. Like me, several other people had been curious to see the huge ship that had arrived that morning, and people were spaced out near the fence to the dock, taking photographs and staring up at its bulk. I’d been looking forward to its arrival for some reason, and to seeing it up close, since I had read on Saturday that it was on its way to New York.
Some distance away from me was a young woman in an American flag jacket, holding her son who was also holding a flag — the two of them gazing at the boat through the fence palings. The welcome was surprising and quaint (most other onlookers were in exercise gear), and I realised that I, too, had probably been drawn to the strange nationalism that might arise in war times — the romance of a boat bound for a stricken city, bringing reinforcements and possible solutions for the unfolding catastrophe. Even in a country where we’ve seen time and time again that nobody is coming, the people still hold hope that things will be okay — which is perhaps one of the saddest realities of all.
