Manhattan Thrice
Stories #6: Three icy moments in New York City
One glorious late afternoon in October, eight weeks shy of winter, I exit the civic building to a seemingly summer’s day. A blinding butterscotch ball dominates the cerulean stage as clouds form a dance, their swirls resembling soft serve vanilla.
I’ve been holed up in the confines of a courtroom. A lifelong American Citizen, this wasn’t my first summons for jury duty, but I had never been forced to relive and reveal those parts of my life I had tried to forget. And yet, in the eyes of the law, these are the things that define us.
Sun beating, brain belting, I head north on Centre Street through Chinatown in the direction of home and call my husband to download my adrenaline. Little do I know it’s just firing up.
“Part of the selection process involves swearing under oath and answering a list of questions to a packed courtroom,” I rattle, breathless—“Through a microphone!”
The block ahead, Canal Street, looks busier than usual. It’s always teeming with tourists and vendors but there’s something different about this day. Pedestrians swarm towards and around me, sidewalks under siege. Goggle-eyed sightseers pass me by, one of them braying — “Whoa! New York is crazy!”
Fear. Chaos. Sirens. Ominous men in hoods and masks. Shady-looking police vests. Pushing, shoving, cacophony rising — “Hold on, I think something major is happening.”
“Yes, I can hear.” Horns blaring, he’s barely audible. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know but people are filming. I’ll call you back.”
A sea of iPhones face an unmarked vehicle blocking the flow of traffic. Anarchy and outrage spills from sidewalk to street. A woman’s shriek—“It’s ICE! ICE are here!”
I watch in disbelief as Bad Guys pin down civilians, cuffing and bundling them into vehicles. I’m too shocked to think and too scared to film. My eyes scan the mob and land on the ICE men’s guns. Is this a military operation? Where are the NYPD?
The scene is hard to comprehend. Real life is always wilder than the movies. Am I seriously witnessing an ICE raid? How did I manage to get caught up in the middle of this?
A woman of Asian descent lunges and points her finger at the brown and black people huddled on a street corner. She issues a chilling warning, her voice shrill and startling — “They’re coming for you next! And you! And you!”
They hover around their merchandise, shellshocked. Some legal, some not. Fight, Flight, or Freeze? They seem to say without saying a word.
Bold protestors shout, curse and shake their fists, showing those bad guys whose in charge. It’s a Big Ugly Mess. I know I should scram but don’t want to flee without evidence. I press record on my phone.
Dodging and weaving out of harm’s way, I hurry down a side street and call back my husband. I can barely get the words out. Out. Out! We are meant to be going out tonight! “Honey, I’m really freaked out.”
He stays on the phone with me until I get home. I’m in such a state I have to take Xanax. I think about all the people I’m meant to see later for a book launch event at the home of David Roberts — Cici Sullivan, Eleanor Anstruther, Alisa Kennedy Jones, Kimberly Warner and Kirsten Miller — I had been looking forward to this night for weeks!
But how can I possibly be around people after a day like this? I don’t know how to excuse myself or explain the reason. “Er, I’m not going to be able to come tonight because I got really triggered over past traumas while doing mandatory civic duty and then I got caught up in an ICE raid on the way home,” recites the voice in my head. It sounds ridiculous.
Evening plans abolished, I don’t leave the safety of our apartment for the rest of the night. In the past I would have soothed myself by smoking weed, but that stopped working a long time ago so I don’t do that anymore. There’s only one thing left that gives me comfort: ice cream.
My husband and I are healthy eaters but I convince him to ditch the diet so he can be my partner-in-crime. There’s nothing criminal about an ice cream binge in the grand scheme of things. Not after what I’ve just witnessed.
We take our time deciding where to order our deliciousness from and what type of evil to indulge in. We whittle it down to three: Talenti Gelato, Van Leeuwen, or Pinkberry.
Pinkberry wins (plus sauces and toppings.)
I wake up to a new day. I’ve been summoned back to jury duty but don’t have to be there til the afternoon, which means I can attend a lunch at Augustine Jewels on the Upper East Side. The owner, Alexandra Robson, is a friend of a friend, an excellent writer here on Substack: Vicky Ward Investigates
Situated on the same island, Uptown Manhattan is a world away from Downtown. There is a striking contrast between these surroundings of quiet luxury and the commotion on Canal Street less than 24 hours ago.
Welcomed into the cocoon of Augustine by the lovely Alexandra, I settle into my seat at the beautifully decorated dining table dotted with winking stones and sparkling gems, some adorning the fingers, necks and earlobes of the ladies I’m lunching with.
Alexandra sits at the head of the table like an empress, trays of gems laid out in front of her. She begins her talk and shows us how to tell the difference between a pink sapphire and a ruby, followed by yellow sapphires, citrines and garnets. We pass a plate around the table for closer inspection. They look like boiled sweets.
In hip-hop and pop culture, “ice” is a slang word for diamonds. I try on a stunning aquamarine and diamond ring, and imagine what it would be like to wear ice like this every day, as many of these ladies do. One of them, bedecked in a staggering set of emeralds—“All from my husband”—admires the aquamarine stone on my finger with a beguiling smile. “Do you know, I think that’s the only color of jewelry I don’t own!”
If only people of every color could be made to feel as welcome and wanted as that gem is to her jewel box. Wouldn’t that be nice?
When I was a kid, I saw a sign on a visit to Manhattan that read: “New York, New York. So nice they named it twice.”
New Yorkers, don’t forget to vote! 4th November is Election Day.
Let’s make New York nice again.
Peace out.
What a wild, cinematic pendulum swing! From jury duty confessions to terrifying ICE raids to sapphires at lunch. Only in New York could trauma and talc-frosted trinkets share a 24-hour window. We missed you so much, but you write with such grace about chaos, and I love how you find humanity (and even humor) in the whiplash. “Let’s make New York nice again,” indeed. 💎🗽
Manhattan Thrice is powerfully written and organized to expose the complex character of New York City from personal experience. The photos enhance each one. I loved the three vanilla ice cream cones floating above the cityscape.