Shared Hardship and the Souls of Cities

Los Angeles wears its indifference like a Prada label. I'm a pretty friendly guy, and I don't know a single neighbor's name. In Los Angeles, we complain a lot. But we do not suffer.  

Consider so many other places and how they cope. In the Twin Cities, you can't help but be "Minnesota nice" when you know that six months of frigidity and five-foot snowdrifts are in the offing. The Cajun spirit was forged in New Orleans in part by decades of hurricanes, of which Katrina is only the latest example. The chill of Denver pushes 20-somethings into bars and brewpubs; same for the rain in Seattle and Portland. Civic pride in San Francisco and Chicago both arise in part from those cities' ashes. Across the Great Plains, tornadoes, hail, and even a good thunderstorm will do. 

And there's always New York: blackouts, blizzards, hurricanes, and other acts to which no God would ever lay claim. 

In each of these cases, disaster and discomfort have raised civic spirits. They inspire little gestures, like shoveling a neighbor's sidewalk or letting her borrow your cell phone. They create heroes. They wash away dreams and force residents to rebuild. People to congregate on streetcorners, forget about their phones and computers, and share some stories. If the corner bar or cafe stays open, that's where the neighborhood rides out the storm. Sometimes, when the lights go out, they lead to even more residents. 

One Facebook friend wrote, with the raw eloquence that can only come from intense experience: "People laying prostrate next to outlets at banks and restaurants; putting makeup on in public restrooms; cheering when linksys is a wifi option; trucking a suitcase around with you everywhere; drinking at all times of the day; endless delays and thus more drinking New York City literally has become one giant airport."  

Meanwhile, people out here--no matter how strong our feelings of sympathy and support may be--are selling scripts and doing Pilates. 

Not I nor anybody else would wish Superstorm Sandy on anyone. And yet, there's that envy. The envy derives from our fascination with the power of nature, to be sure. But it is, I think, also an envy of human contact. It's an envy of how we feel, about ourselves and about each other, when we collectively face something more awesome than we are. It's an envy that comes from the conviction that something good must come of this.

As the post-Sandy days wear on, I dearly hope that spiritedness does not give way to frustration, with so much to rebuild and so much drying-out left. I don't know what the threshold is for despair or when frayed nerves will overwhelm the cooperative instinct. 

In New York next week, I hope we don't find out. In Los Angeles, as in so many other places forged in the name of comfort, I know we will never find out. In a perfect world, one that looks superficially like Los Angeles and not at all like Atlantic City, everyone would always work to make life better. The brawn needed to sump basements and haul debris would go towards noble buildings and flat sidewalks. The momentary cooperation would be spread into daily nods and smiles.

As the people of the East Coast undergo these trials involuntarily, may the rest of us, who have the luxury of light, power, and mobility, show our mettle in ways of our own choosing so that no one and no place needs to be the object of envy.