The beach. Hot dogs. Salsa on the boardwalk. Funnel cake. The Cyclone. A dazzlingly diverse and loony crowd of folks that could only be found in Brooklyn... This is the magic of Coney Island!
Beyond the rides and food and trash and lights of the amusement park, Coney Island is remarkable because of its story as a New York City neighborhood and landmark. Over the years, Coney Island has faced the threat of gentrification, a steamrolling force that is transforming New York City neighborhoods with soul and history into communities that are wealthy, white, and inaccessible. It is a struggle across the city for neighborhoods to keep their identities (and longtime residents) in the face of such rapid change.
I am not a resident of Coney Island. As a child, I visited the aquarium on school trips. I have taken family members there to marvel at the sharks and fish, the illuminated underwater tanks. As a young woman, I've had many unforgettable nights at Coney Island. For me, summer in New York has become synonymous with Fireworks Fridays at Coney Island, where the fireworks displays are dangerously close to the crowd. The burnt scraps of paper fall down all around you on the beach. You can smell the ash and smoke. Like much at Coney Island, the experience is visceral, exhilarating, and probably not all that safe.
I wrote this vignette a few years ago after a particularly memorable evening at Coney Island. It's not fully formed, but it is an impression of the sights and smells of Coney Island. I think it captures how instrumental place is in our construction of memories. Here you go! Copyright and all that!
The white surf broke over the rocks and the water did not look so far below. It seemed close, reaching and surging for us. The boardwalk came alive as vendors flicked on neon signs across the beach. Old men sold glow sticks, and young couples crushed cans of beer into sad discs to fling into the ocean. The kids were quieter now as they were tucked into carriages and cars, arms. There was the smell of popcorn burning and the sudden tragedy of someone’s last arepa falling in the sand. From this far and through the haze of tears, I could not discern the turning of the ferris wheel. All I could make out was the golden word printed in midair: WONDER.
Wonder Wheel at Coney Island and fireworks.
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