I gave up my NYC dream amid a sea of MAGA hats; all of it is hard

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Well my friends, it has been quite a week. I have been down with a nasty COVID-19 bug, fever included, but while I may feel as if my high temperature is causing some weird dreams, it now appears that these “dreams” are actually facts. Our new reality. We have elected Donald Trump as president, once again. 

While in New York City recently, I got a glimpse of his legions of followers up close and felt for the first time that the outcome we are now experiencing was a real possibility. So how and where did I run into this devoted MAGA group? 

Let me explain. 

It started with my friend Patricia, who offered some excellent advice. “Put on your big girl panties and go.”

So I did. The event was a bar mitzvah just outside of Philly. Zeah, my late husband Michael’s brother’s grandson, was going to become a man, and the entire Sternbach family and many of their friends would be in attendance. It would be the first time I had seen most of them since Michael died. Cousins, nieces, nephews, friends from his old neighborhood, etc. 

Large gatherings always intimidate me. In the past, I used Michael as kind of a buffer. I could sidle up to him and slip my hand into his and feel him squeeze it, silently saying, “I got you.” Knowing I would not have him as a refuge, I had quite a bit of anxiety. I mentioned it to my friend Patricia. Hence her comment. 

So, I, along with my giant underpants, traveled by plane, train and automobile for the occasion. 

The weather was beautiful. Unexpectedly warm and fall colors to mark time passing in a dazzling display of fiery reds and golden yellows. And, being that we were not in Philly, but more out in the countryside, many, many red and blue Trump signs in the yards on the way to the temple. 

Oy, I would have loved to tuck my hand into Michael’s. 

The service was deep and meaningful and Zeah was masterful. To watch him was to again be reminded of time passing. I remember him as a newborn, a toddler. And now, he stood, a tall, composed young man. We celebrated him for two days, and then I had planned to take the train to New York City on the Sunday after and spend three days seeing friends and taking care of some business. 

I am wild about the ease of using public transportation when I am on the East Coast. I hitched a ride with my old friend Bernice who has, in her 91 years, lost two partners and, therefore, had lots of advice on grief to share.

What I am hanging on to is her promise that at some point, perhaps not soon, but coming, I will be able to feel the freedom she now feels. She travels, meets friends in the city to dine and see theater. She finds meaning in volunteering. But, she advised me, it doesn’t happen overnight.

And yes, you read correctly, she is 91. And cute as can be in her dark-wash jeans and sneakers and black turtleneck sweater. 

After she dropped me off at the station in Westfield, New Jersey, I bought my $10 ticket to Penn Station and settled in for the ride. I thought about the weekend and how kind everyone had been, and my shoulders began to relax as we sped along toward my very familiar city. My second home. A place, as unlikely as it may sound, in which I take great comfort. 

I always feel that New York can’t throw anything at me that I can’t handle. My self-confidence always grows when I am alone walking the streets in the middle of all of the hustle and chaos. And most of the time I have spent in New York over the past 23 years has been without Michael. Our time together here was supposed to begin once he retired. 

But, as you all know, he got sick and died within two months last year, just after retiring. He was 65. 

The last time we were together in the city, we strolled on the Upper West Side and discussed our future, which was about to open up to new adventures. For many years, we have owned a small apartment within walking distance of Riverside Park as well as Central Park. We’ve rented the studio for more than a decade. 

Michael and I had decided that once he retired, we would take it over and split our time between coasts. We would get bikes and since the apartment was small, we would get hooks to hang them on the wall. We would ride along the Hudson River the entire length of Manhattan. We would take the train or even the ferry to visit his family in New Jersey. We would be available for every bar or bat mitzvah coming up in the future. And I couldn’t wait to decorate the apartment. Make it ours after so many others had claimed it as theirs. 

The entire notion thrilled me in a way I can’t even express. I loved that we had this plan. I could not believe it was actually going to happen. But why wouldn’t it? 

Well, we now know why.

As the train pulled into Penn Station, I grabbed my bag and began to make my way up and out of the building and to the cab line. People were everywhere. More than usual. Just getting out the door was a challenge. And when I did exit, I was shocked at the crimson sea of MAGA hats and Trump signs and big pickup trucks with giant flags. 

Not one to keep up with Trump’s schedule, I had no idea he was speaking at Madison Square Garden, which is on top of Penn Station. Yes, that event. The one with the tasteless Puerto Rico joke and other offensive comments. The cab line vanished because of the crowds. 

But, as I stood there figuring out what to do, there was his giant face on the giant screen right above me, grinning like a madman. And thousands of people cheering for him. I guess that is our future. 

The most disturbing thing I witnessed was a limo pulling up and a young man, perhaps 18 or 19, jumped out of the car dressed as Trump right down to the weird combover. There was something about seeing him, after watching Zeah perform his duties at the temple with so much grace and enthusiasm and then seeing this young man playing at being Trump that simply stunned me. 

Once more, as I made my way through the crowd, I wished for Michael’s hand. Not because I was afraid, I wasn’t at all. But just so I could feel that we were in this together. I mean, this was New York City. How strange to see blocks and blocks of Trump-heads. And getting a cab was impossible. Until it wasn’t.

That night as I enjoyed dinner and a cocktail with my friend David, I told him how jarring it had been to come upon this large group in this very progressive city. We both agreed we had no idea what to expect next. 

We still don’t. 

In the morning, I had a meeting with the property manager of our apartment. We sat in the lobby of my hotel and talked about Michael. She had been sad to hear of his death. She was kind and soft-spoken. She thanked me as I signed the papers she handed me to begin to process the apartment sale. 

I can’t seem to imagine living out that particular dream without Michael. I can’t even imagine setting foot inside that lovely little space I have dreamed of sharing with him for so many years. 

I am trying to embrace the fact that at some point, if Bernice is correct, I will feel the freedom she feels. Perhaps letting go of old dreams and desires is a beginning. But coming up with new dreams at this point still feels like trying to flag down a yellow cab in the middle of a tsunami of red MAGA hats.