4
Losses, Spring 2020
In the spring of 2020, when New Yorkers went into isolation to slow the lethal spread of COVID-19, they were severed from what they loved—and what they loathed—in their city. If it was good to hear the sounds of birds instead of the noise of traffic, it was painful to hear the wail of sirens and count the rising number of deaths. When New York went on pause on March 22, some eighteen people were dying daily. The number grew dramatically until the first week of April, when about eight hundred were dying daily. Deaths then declined sharply until late June, when they were back at the level of late March.1
The isolation frayed people’s everyday sense of connection, both to their environment and one another. The basic building blocks of social life—seeing people at work, meeting them for drinks or coffee, exchanging a quip on a street corner—all became things of the past, “the before times.”
The geography of the city was transformed, too. Even in the middle of the week normally bustling neighborhoods such as Times Square and Wall Street were as quiet as a Sunday morning. Familiar businesses closed when it became clear that they could not outlast the pandemic; heartfelt notes to patrons, taped into windows and doorways, served as epitaphs for beloved bars and restaurants. Playgrounds were closed—until health authorities figured out that the virus was airborne and did not spread by people touching playground swings.
People lost opportunities to gather in groups and celebrate events great and small. Religious worship went online, weddings and birthday parties were canceled. Burials and funerals were limited to a tiny number of people. The cancellation of a long-anticipated event, like a retirement party, suddenly put a blank spot over a date that had been intended to punctuate weeks and years of happy anticipation.2
Over time, the accumulated disappointments took a toll. Some people became sad or bitter, others withdrew into a zone of safety. Still others ignored social distancing requirements altogether.
The accumulated weight of these responses degraded what one observer called “our social metabolism.”3 The losses varied with the individual, but over time the monotony of the lockdown could confound people’s sense of time, while isolation eroded their capacity for interacting with others and made them less tolerant of human foibles.
Worst, of course, were the deaths. In normal times doctors and nurses could at least comfort the dying, even if they could not cure them. Family members could hold their hands, pray for them, or serenade them as they passed from this life. During COVID-19, however, under a state order, hospitals banned visitors to prevent the spread of the virus.4
Nurses heroically tended to patients in extreme distress, but it was impossible to maintain the kind of bedside family visits that eased a person’s passing in normal times. The ordeals were summed up in a phrase that gained resonance during the most trying days of the pandemic in New York City: “You die alone.”5
Survivors lost not just loved ones, but opportunities to grieve and heal. During the worst days of the pandemic, the number of people dying was so great that funeral homes and cemeteries were overwhelmed.6
The fear of contracting the virus from a body, and the restrictions on social distancing that kept the number of people at a funeral to a minimum, allowing mourners to watch burials only from a distance, meant that the normal processes of grief were suspended.7 Stephanie McCrummen, a reporter for the Washington Post, recounted how beleaguered workers at the Neufeld Funeral Home in Elmhurst, Queens, stopped organizing traditional funerals and transported bodies directly from the hospital to a crematorium. She called it “death without ritual.”8
Alfreda Small
Alfreda Small, a member of District Council 37 who lives in Staten Island, worked as a home health aide and as a police administrator before retiring.9
Changes to 4 train
Took forever to get home
Tired as hell now
Thomas Barzey
Thomas Barzey lives in the Bronx, where he was born and raised. Currently an actor, he has worked as a stage manager, home health aide, and office assistant.10
Afraid to go out
Cannot let anyone know me
Please hide me
Quarantined and Unemployed in the Bronx
Nichole Matos
When COVID-19 hit New York City, Nichole Matos of the Morrisania section of the Bronx was working at a gym and studying at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. She was laid off and went into quarantine.11
I was working at 24 Hour Fitness, which is a gym in the Riverdale area of the Bronx. I was a service expert. I’ve been working there for about twoish years.
Once everything started happening with the virus, they immediately closed down; gyms were one of the first places to close. My manager informed me, and they didn’t really have much information at first, but then they told us that they would pay us the next pay date, which they did. And they advised everyone to apply for unemployment, which I also did. And they haven’t really said much as far as reopening.
I’m genuinely concerned. I’m not sure if I’m still going to have a job. One of my co-workers forwarded me an article about the company regarding their financial issues and possibly bankruptcy, which is a little concerning for me and other co-workers. Are we going to have a job? They’re not really vocalizing these issues, which is probably none of our business in their eyes.
Unemployment for me personally has been a smooth process. I was able to apply online and I was able to receive money, which is good. So I can’t really complain. But it’s just a matter of, “What’s going to happen when this is over?”
Nichole quarantined with her mother and sister in Morrisania.
From a human perspective, it sucks. You miss your friends, you miss your family, you miss just having the freedom to do what you would normally. It’s now more of a routine. Same thing every day.
You get tired of eating the same thing, watching the same things, reading the same things for class and meeting for these virtual classes. I feel like sometimes it could be redundant and repetitive and awkward and pointless and a waste of time. I could be using those two hours for that lecture to work on a paper or something. I feel that professors—they’re trying, but I just would like to be a little bit more realistic. Certain things are just not working.
In the event that we do have to continue to distance learning, I feel like they should work on just how they actually have the classes. I don’t think the virtual meeting twice a week, three times a week is necessary.
There are days that I cannot wait for the semester to be over.
I miss having a normal life. I miss going out and just doing stuff.
I know that the program that I usually do for internships is not happening this summer. That affects me and a whole bunch of New York kids. We depend on employment programs and internship programs to keep us doing something educational or just overall positive. If the quarantine is not over by the summer, there’s going to be a whole bunch of kids in the streets. There’s no benefit of having the freedom if we’re not going to be able to have these programs keeping us busy in the summer.
I don’t really socialize much within my neighborhood. I have a couple of friends in the building. And they’ve pretty much been on the same type of time that we have at this household. I know just from seeing outside the window that the streets are empty. The homeless people are definitely out there which is sad and concerning.
Businesses have closed. There was a supermarket down the block, the owner and his wife contracted the virus and he passed away. And that’s kind of concerning, because anytime you step foot outside, it’s a risk. Even going to get your groceries you have to be extra careful.
In moments like this, you have to make sure to take care of yourself and take these things seriously. The reality is that you can get it anywhere. Doesn’t matter the age, doesn’t matter the health conditions. It’s something that we can’t avoid. We have to try our best to be not only considerate of ourselves and our family, but others. There’s nothing more important than your health and safety.
Socializing is important. It’s needed. It’s wanted very much. But you just have to adjust and know that we’re going to eventually be free. We’re going to eventually have the freedom that we want, but for right now, we just have to focus on keeping those numbers down, as Cuomo says.
Saying Farewell
David Hunt, Tess McDade, and Peter Walsh
In March 2020, bars and restaurants in New York City closed temporarily (except for takeout and delivery) to limit the spread of COVID-19. Over time beloved businesses closed, including Coogan’s Bar and Restaurant at 4015 Broadway in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. Opened in 1985, Coogan’s had become uptown’s unofficial town hall—loved by residents, politicians, off-duty police officers, and doctors and staff from the nearby NewYork-Presbyterian/Columbia University Irving Medical Center. In 2018, Coogan’s had fought off a massive rent increase with the support of friends and elected officials, but it could not overcome the challenges of COVID-19. In April 2020 owners David Hunt, Tess McDade, and Peter Walsh announced that Coogan’s was going out of business. Coogan’s became the subject of the documentary film Coogan’s Way, directed by Glenn Osten Anderson, released in 2021, and the book Last Call at Coogan’s: The Life and Death of a Neighborhood Bar by Jon Michaud, published in 2023.12
April 21, 2020
To our Coogan’s family and friends,
We need your help in saying farewell in a message that is so very difficult to write. What’s missing are your stories and wishes and even pics that will make whole the heart of our saying goodbye.
Ironically, this past March 17 would be the last time Coogan’s closed its doors. We had hoped to open them again but sadly that is not possible.
To all our Coogan’s family that extends from a corner in New York’s Washington Heights to so many near and distant places, we offer love and best wishes that you remain safe, strong and healthy for now and ever.
Our first priority will be the security and future of our staff. We encourage our friends to contact us to help this quality group of the best possible people in talent, hard work, and integrity to obtain jobs and employment. For over thirty-five years we have given and received more than is usual in a working experience.
What was made at Coogan’s were warm friendships, easy smiles and hearty laughter. If you came in a stranger, you immediately became a friend and left as an “old timer.” We were able to share a full glass of love with a large plate of honesty in a neighborhood full of the most wonderful people you could ever hope to meet.
At this time we are so proud of our friends and professionals at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital and Columbia Medical Center who made Coogan’s their home away from home. Thank you for who you are and what you do. The world depends on you!
To many of us, Coogan’s was a public house, a meeting place, a table to break bread and solve problems. We were a place of celebration and remembrance. We were a bar full of life … a place to listen and a place to talk. We were a place to leave behind the burdens of everyday life and, more often than not, inherit new ones when we volunteered to help a neighbor in need, a kid in search of himself, or a stranger down on his luck.
We were people of different races, creeds and ideas, all with the same dream to be secure and love. We were a place to find out you weren’t alone but if you wanted to be, your space was sacred. And together at Coogan’s we became stronger and powerful, with an urge to share and offer ourselves with deeds that gave us, in return, the realization of life and the essence of beauty.
There are so many people we would want to mention for their consideration and friendship, especially during the past few months, but we hesitate for fear of omitting anyone. That will come later when our emotions are settled.
Now it is your turn to complete our story …
Sad and grateful,
Gracias, slainte and thank you
Dave, Tess and Peter
Living in a Shelter in the First Year of the Pandemic
Rozelyn Murray
COVID-19 took away something that Rozelyn Murray treasured: her days at school that gave her a break from living in a shelter. Her essay first appeared in COVID Class 2021, a platform for students in David Rohlfing’s English 12 class at Pace High School, a public school bordering Chinatown and the Lower East Side.13
My experience during the pandemic was a little different from others’ because of my living situation. My mother and I had moved into a shelter in August 2019 after she lost her job. I was very grateful that we had somewhere to stay, but I hated being there. School was my only escape.
Every morning I would wake up excited to leave the shelter and see my friends and all my teachers. After school I would not go straight home, I would stay in the park with friends talking about everything in the world. Going back to the shelter was the worst part of my day, it was such a drag to get there. I would rarely miss school and if I did it was because I had a doctor’s appointment.
Who knew that on one random Friday in March 2020, it would be my last day of school? It was very sad to hear the mayor say that we couldn’t go back to school because of how rapidly the virus was spreading.
I became very depressed and hoped we could go back to school. I knew that my health and everyone’s health in the school were important but I was very adamant about going back to school. My mother and I would watch the news every morning to see if anything changed, but there was no luck.
I knew it was getting serious when the school was sending in work from Google Classroom. At the time I did not have a laptop, so our assistant principal Mr. Chong was very generous and brought a laptop to the shelter. During this time the school was very helpful and so were all my teachers.
The room I was staying in with my mom was starting to get smaller as the days passed. It had two twin size beds, a TV, a bathroom, and a mini fridge. Thank god we were not dirty, we made the room as neat as possible. Again, I was very grateful we had somewhere to stay, but my mother and I started to clash because of how small the space felt.
The only income we had was my father’s contributions and food stamps. We could only buy limited amounts of food because we had no space and the fridge was small. There was no stove so all I was eating was microwaved food and outside fast food. I gained a bunch of unwanted weight and slowly started to hate my body.
My life started to feel very boring because of all the eating, sleeping, and watching TV. There was a point where I felt stuck and I felt that we were never going to get out of the shelter. I wanted my own room, a kitchen, a dining room table and just the feeling of being stable.
COVID slowed the process of my mother and me getting an apartment. We waited for a whole year until they gave us keys to our new apartment. That was the most exciting day ever. I was already thinking about life after COVID and having my friends and family come over.
Phone calls with my friends were the best because of all the laughs and all the “remember when” conversations. My friends and I would even talk about how we were going to hang out when all of this would be over. By the time we were able to hang out, our friendships broke apart.
It was very sad to see that over the months of the pandemic, we were starting to grow apart. I would think to myself about how if we were at school our friendships would still be strong. There were many times I tried to rekindle my friendships but it didn’t work out. It came to a point when I started focusing on myself and hanging out with friends who actually wanted to be my friend.
I can really say that COVID messed up my whole twelfth-grade experience. It stole the joy from seeing my teachers face to face, hanging out in the gym with my friends, and meeting new people. Going to the prom was one of my biggest dreams and COVID killed it. It makes me angry because why didn’t the government have this under control? High school is pretty much over and I waited for this for the longest.
I am very proud to say that even though COVID came around, I was still focused in school and never slacked off. I am very grateful that all my teachers and my mother were huge supporters for me during this tough time.
Grief Works from Home at All Hours
Michèle Voltaire Marcelin
New York is a city of immigrants, and many are haunted by memories of tragedies in other times and places. In Brooklyn, Michèle Voltaire Marcelin—Haitian-born poet, visual artist, and performer—was haunted by the mass graves of Chileans executed during the 1973 coup and Haitians killed in the 2010 earthquake. But nothing prepared her for images of mass graves in New York City in April 2020.14
Sleepwalkers confined in a dream
Six feet apart like barbed wire
The days pass by without measure
Calendars have been quarantined
State your name and take a number
Stand in line for time regained
Only the mirror knows your face
The mask you wear beneath your mask
Don’t inhale the poisoned air
Pass each other in silence
The ground itself is a peril
Keep your shadow at a distance
Your chest filled with glass splinters
Beware, Beware the crown of thorns
It lights a fire between your eyes
Delirium in Technicolor
Don’t break silence with trifling words
Thousands die behind closed doors
Disposed of in mobile morgues
In standard issue body bags
They dig mass graves on Hart Island
Pine trees on which we carved our hearts
In parks where children ran and played
Are now boxes that hold our dead
Sorrow is never on holiday
Misery is not on leave of absence
We’ve exhausted all appeals
Grief works from home at all hours
Figure 7 May 6, 2020, Brooklyn. Photographer Bryan R. Smith writes: “The Statue of Liberty is visible beyond the refrigerated morgue trailers at the South Brooklyn Marine Terminal. The trailers held the bodies of people who had died of COVID-19. The emergency morgue was set up in April until funeral homes or crematories could accept the bodies… . The Statue of Liberty is a symbol of America and to see trailers of bodies at the base is an image of a country failing at the most basic responsibility: to keep our citizens safe. Knowing now what we didn’t know then, this photo speaks to the failure of the Trump administration to have a cohesive national plan to address the virus. At the time, I hoped that this image would be a notice to Americans to take this virus seriously, to follow facts and science, and to wear a mask out of respect for first responders and fellow Americans who are putting themselves in harm’s way for us.”
The Second Father: A Tribute
C. A. Duran
“A Second Father: A Tribute” first appeared in COVID Class 2021, a platform for students in David Rohlfing’s English 12 class at Pace High School, a public school bordering Chinatown and the Lower East Side.15
Death has unfortunately been something that many families have had to deal with during this pandemic and one of those families was mine. Osiris Mora was his name. I’ve called him San Juan for as long as I could remember because that’s where he was from, and I couldn’t say his name correctly, so it just stuck with me.
Every morning and every night that the weather was good, he’d be outside his building on Orchard Street sitting on his walker listening to Spanish music on a JBL Clip 3. I’d usually catch him at night because in the morning I’d leave too early.
Osiris was always filled with energy despite having many health problems such as undergoing open heart surgery, diabetes, high blood pressure, and probably many other problems that I didn’t even know about. There is a saying in Spanish that goes, “Hierba mala nunca muere,” meaning in English, “The bad guys never die.” He and my dad were the bad guys according to my mom and his wife.
My dad always called him El Malo, meaning The Bad Guy. For what reason, I don’t know, but he wasn’t supposed to pass, at least not yet.
There is this one memory I have as if it were today. It was when I was around thirteen or fourteen playing in a little league baseball team called the Sharks. It was a small league in the Lower East Side neighborhood that I’m pretty sure is still up and running. It’s called OLS (Our Lady of Sorrows), and, yes, it’s a church thing.
We were playing in Field 4 on a partly cloudy type of day. The field was nice because it seemed like the day before they had raked it and put new sand over it. My parents weren’t able to make it since they were off on a little romantic getaway, so I was staying with San Juan and his wife. He had brought me to the field a little earlier so I could get some throwing in with him.
At this time he was healthy for the most part, but was on the verge of running into health issues. I was all warmed up and the game had started. I was a pitcher at the time and that had to be one of the best games I’ve played. We were tied at the eighth inning and I was about to go up to bat.
While I was warming up, San Juan approached me with some advice. “Keep your eyes on the ball, even when he’s winding up. And when he’s getting ready to throw, pick up your front leg and swing with what you got.” And I replied, “Oh, I will.”
I was up to bat and at the first pitch I did as he said. DINK … was the sound my bat made when I hit a bomb to left field. I ran and ran. Home run!
I got to the plate and after celebrating with my team, and saw San Juan through the fence with only excitement. I went and hugged him like he was my own father. At least it felt that way. After we were done with the game we got ice cream and made our way home.
While I was on my way back from practice on May 10, 2021, I saw the ambulance at the building door taking down what seemed to be a body in a white bag. The body slid down on a flat stretcher.
I made my way upstairs with confusion and then, as I opened my door, I saw my father with a face of sadness. He told me. My heart felt like it was going to drop out of my body and the anger filled up inside me. My dad’s not one to express his emotions, but we hugged each other as we both let tears go down our faces.
I couldn’t believe it because the day before, San Juan was sitting listening to his music and I was speaking to him. He was telling me about how life was so short and to make sure I have fun as a young teen.
It’s always when you least expect things to happen that they happen. My “second father” gone and we are here having to continue life like everything is supposed to be okay. If I had a chance to see him again I would hug him and tell him how much I loved him and appreciate how much he did for me. May he rest in peace.
Figure 8 New York City death rates by zip code, January 2020 to May 2023. Chart: BetaNYC. Data: New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene.
He Was the Block’s Papa
Veronica E. Fletcher
Joseph Trevor Fletcher, known to his family and close friends as Trevor, worked at the Flatbush, Brooklyn, bus depot as a bus maintainer group A, responsible for all installations, maintenance, repairs, and inspections of the body, mechanical, structural, and electrical equipment on buses and other automotive vehicles for the MTA. Trevor and his wife Veronica had three children, Joshua, Zachary, and Madison. Veronica, a former high school teacher born and raised in Queens, recounted his life, his death from COVID-19, and his funeral.16
In addition to being our children’s father, he was like the block’s Papa. Trevor would watch everybody’s kids like he was their father. He would be out there fixing everyone’s bikes and watching all of the children that came out to play.
My husband was the kind of man that would save a child’s life anonymously and want nothing—no recognition, no credit—and then just go back to whatever he was doing. And not tell anyone. Not even me.
On July 4, 2020, a neighbor stopped me and introduced himself to me and then expressed his condolences while telling me about his family’s gratitude for my husband because Trevor saved the lives of both his son and his nephew when the toddlers ran out into the street. Whenever they tried to thank him, Trevor would just buy everyone ice cream.
An immigrant to the USA with a passion for travel
One of the things that was most important to my late husband was travel. He was an immigrant to America from the country of Grenada. And he wanted our children to be global citizens. So at the age of two months, once they got their shots and passports, each of our three children was on a plane out of the country for their first trip. This was important because my husband said they had to have their sea bath in the Caribbean, just like he did. That’s why travel was essential for us as a family.
He wanted our children to know that the world is bigger than Brooklyn, New York, and the world is bigger than the United States. So, we traveled to different continents. We regularly traveled to different countries in the Caribbean and other places. We took frequent road trips, and we took lots of cruises.
One of my husband’s favorite trips was in 2009, when we flew to London then took the train to Paris for a few days. He was so excited and proud to show our boys the Grenadian flag in the Eiffel Tower viewing deck.
A job that was a calling
My late husband was an incredibly strong man and he was dedicated to his duty.
Transit wasn’t a job for him. It was his duty. It was his calling. Those were his brothers and sisters. Once we began having children every year we would go to MTA Family Day. One time they had it at Six Flags in the rain. I even have a picture of our oldest son in a full fireman’s raincoat and our youngest son in the stroller with the rain cover. What are we doing in an amusement park in the rain in torrential rain? Our family was there for a family day. That’s who he was.
Early in the pandemic, confusion about COVID-19 and its treatment
For many people it’s hard to fathom what it was like at the very beginning. The country didn’t really know anything. In New York we were the epicenter. We would see videos of people being hosed down in China, but my husband knew what the general public knew, which was very little.
So, for my late husband, going into work, it didn’t matter how he felt. He was going into work. He went to work and did what he needed to do, because he needed to be there in the trenches with his co-laborers, and to make sure the city kept moving. He wouldn’t have told me that he did not feel right. He would’ve left the house saying, “Time to make the donuts. Honey, I love you. I’ll see you later.”
My children were home doing remote school and my late husband was going to work.
My husband and I took care of each other. My job was to make sure that my husband and my children had what we needed. Everybody had to take probiotics in the morning. I’m buying the easy peel tangerines, and everybody had to eat them. Our discussions were about family and probiotics and vitamin C and washing our hands.
Trevor got sick in March. We never had a discussion of what was or wasn’t being done outside of our home. My priorities were how he felt and how I could help him feel better. Any discussions with my late husband were about, “Here’s some elderberry. I’ve got Gatorade. I’ve got electrolytes. Here, drink more electrolytes. Here’s some tea and take some probiotics. Have extra fluids.”
When he felt physically ill and could not continue going to work, that’s when he sought medical assistance.
And then eventually, the treatments were no longer working. Everything just happened rapidly after that.
The last time that I got to have a conversation with my late husband was March 31. That evening I gave him his medicine and of course some electrolytes and some elderberry and tucked him in. And he told me he loved me. I told him I loved him. And I gave him a kiss on his forehead like he always gave me. That evening at about seven was the last time I heard my husband tell me he loved me.
Early the next morning I found him in respiratory distress. Choking. Having difficulty breathing. And that’s when I called the ambulance, April 1 at about four in the morning.
That’s the last time I held my husband in my arms. And even in that moment I did my job, cleaning him up because the mucus was coming out. I cleaned him up and I talked to him and encouraged him, told him how much we loved him and needed him.
It was trauma for our entire family. Our children, all of them, saw the strongest man, their hero, the strongest man in the history of men, in respiratory distress, fighting to breathe and fighting to hold on to his life. And he did that for us. Like a valiant warrior and soldier. For eleven days in the hospital he fought for his life and fought to come back to us.
He was intubated. I had opportunities to interact with my late husband through FaceTime videos.
More than once, doctors would call and say, “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m going to call you back so you can say goodbye.” I received several of those phone calls before I received the last phone call.
The last words that anyone said to him in our family were on April 11 when I gave my children an opportunity to have their FaceTime visit with him. They told him that they loved him and they needed him. I chose to let those be the last voices that my late husband heard of anyone that he knew. I’m sure he heard what was going on in the hospital with the doctors around him, nurses and what have you. But he also heard the love of his family. Instead of it being me talking, I chose for it to be our children, so that way they could have their last moments with their Papa. Knowing and loving this man almost twenty years, they wouldn’t get that twenty-year opportunity and I wanted them to have that memory and that knowledge that their voices are the last voices that their Papa heard of anyone that he knew.
At that time at funerals you were able to have ten people in person. The casket was closed. I was never even able to identify his body. My late husband’s funeral was a very small, brief gathering where I had prerecorded Bible verses and prayers.
The coffin was decorated with the flag of Grenada and, because Trevor was a James Bond fan who loved playing with Lego with his children, an Aston Martin automobile made from Lego that his sons crafted. In a West African tradition, we cut up a piece of African cloth, placed one piece in the coffin, and shared other pieces with Trevor’s family and funeral participants, establishing an enduring connection between Trevor and his survivors.
And then the burial—the cemetery only allowed one person onto the premises. So I stood there with my pastor on FaceTime and I flipped the camera so he could do the committal. I had to stand at my husband’s grave alone, barely able to stand because I contracted COVID taking care of him. That’s what a COVID burial was like. And the grief. It was incomprehensible and surreal.
The Cornerstone Baptist Church, Bergen Beach Youth Organization, Veronica’s former students, members of the Fletcher children’s school community, and her children’s former soccer coaches participated in a motorcade in Trevor’s honor organized by the children’s godmother.
We stood outside our home and they circled the block several times in their cars with signs. They blew the horn and told us how much they loved us. One of the deacons from my church prayed for us on a megaphone. Neighbors came out onto their porches. That was the closest anyone could get to us because of COVID.
Afterward people did drive-bys and brought food for us. Other than that, we were completely isolated and alone.
Over time, youth Bible study at Cornerstone Baptist Church, enrollment in a local culinary school, the Boy Scouts and the Girl Scouts, church activities, and extracurricular activities at school helped the Fletcher children, Joshua, Zachary, and Madison, cope with their father’s death.
At a point in time when it was safer to gather outside, Trevor’s transit brothers and sisters from the Flatbush Depot sanitized a bus and sanitized his work tools. And they drove a big city bus to our house and brought his tools home.
It was an honor and a privilege for these MTA brothers and sisters to come to our home and bring his toolbox home for us. And they presented us with an MTA vest. It was an honor and a privilege.
And they shared some stories about my late husband so that the children would know that we’re not the only ones that missed him. He wasn’t only important to us, he was important to other people, too. And when I did a graduation party for my sons, transit employees came to the party, just to tell the kids, “Congratulations. We’re proud of you.”
Figure 9 As COVID deaths mounted, the artists, activists, and folklorists of Naming the Lost Memorials created sites of mourning across New York City, using the languages of surrounding neighborhoods. This one was at Jacobi Medical Center in the Bronx, where sirens sounded constantly during the worst days of COVID. Back left to front right: Elena Martínez, Bobby Sanabria, Luis Pagán, Leenda Bonilla, Edl Alvarez, and Martha Zarate. Photograph by Erik McGregor for Naming the Lost Memorials, City Lore Archive.