By Chloe Baker, Senior Opinions Editor
“Winter Ice Could Humble the United States,” reads a headline published in The Atlantic on January 23. The subhead follows, “Snow we can handle. Ice is another story.”
For days leading up to Winter Storm Fern’s arrival (I bet you didn’t even know she had a name), the snowfall expected to take over the entire East was all anyone could talk about. Whether you were given unsolicited advice about what boots to wear and what boots not to wear (I don’t recommend UGGs), or warned in passing by a school security guard that you should stock up on food and flashlights, the natural curiosity about what would happen got to all of us. This speculation left people adrift. There’s only so much a weatherman can predict, and even then, sometimes storms like this turn out much less intense — or much more intense and icier— than we plan for.
Finally, on January 25, the snow hit New York City. As a Canadian transplant who now calls America home, I have a long history with snow. Growing up in -25 degree Celsius winters has left its mark on me, so I was unenthusiastic about the whole storm to begin with. I like the sun, I miss the summer and my winter break visiting cousins in Ottawa was full of this kind of weather.
But when I left my apartment that morning to grab a coffee with friends and walk in the snow, I noticed the entire mood of the city (and my own) had shifted. The streets were fairly empty, yet ordinary people shoveled and snowblowed not just in front of their buildings, but also the sidewalks ahead of them. Strangers smiled at each other and spoke about the weather. It wasn’t a classic New York day spent looking down. People actually looked up and out!
Store clerks were nicer than usual, and my friends and I found ourselves caught in a conversation with an employee at Trader Joe’s as he mopped the top level. We apologized for getting the floor wet and slushy after he had just cleaned. “What else were you supposed to do?” he responded with a smile. There was humor on the streets. Natural human laughter at the sight of someone nearly slipping, or wind blowing off the odd hat. I stumbled into Walgreens pleading with the worker for any last pair of gloves he may have in the store. He looked at me sweetly, expressing disappointment that they had just sold out. All they had left were shower gloves. One thing all my endeavors that day had in common was the farewell message of “stay warm.” It’s the least we can do for each other in temperatures like this.
It was almost as if the cold of the snow warmed everyone’s hearts. People became patient, lively, rosy-cheeked and reliant on each other.
In an era of deep divisions, a snowstorm reveals our fundamental sameness — not through tragedy, but through shared vulnerability and the simple human rituals of getting through it together. A snowstorm doesn’t care about our politics, social standing or the identities we carefully construct for ourselves. It leaves CEOs and janitors both wondering if they’ll have power tomorrow, and while this leveling can be uncomfortable, it is also liberating. Who are we when we surrender to the unknown? When we can’t predict what will happen or how it will affect us? We are taken out of just our heads and forced back into our bodies, our neighborhoods and our dependence on the kindness of strangers.
This snowstorm has forced us to take a step back and admit that we can’t control everything. But that surrender unlocks something special. It opens up more space for humor, generosity, shared conversation and the silent solidarity of just being with each other. We’re all asking the same questions and refreshing the same weather apps. We’re making the same jokes, complaining about the same cold and all wondering if school will be remote on Tuesday or just Monday.
I’ve spent semesters in American politics classes reading about the lack of communal life in America, but the snow storm felt like evidence of something else. Political scientist Robert Putnam’s 2000 book Bowling Alone argues that Americans have suffered a major shift in social capital since the mid-20th century, transitioning from active members of civic organizations and communities to isolated individuals. More people bowl than ever, Putnam observed, but they bowl alone, a symbol of our broader retreat from community, connection and trust. As a political science major, I’ve read excerpts from this book many times, and it has always left me feeling pessimistic about our capacity for togetherness.
But standing on a freezing, snow-covered street corner with frozen ears and hands, watching strangers interact and brush off their cars together, while shovelers wave good morning to everyone, I found myself disagreeing with Putnam’s diagnosis. Or at least his prognosis. He worried that the fabric of American society had frayed beyond repair. But I argue that moments like Winter Storm Fern remind us that we were never really bowling alone; we just needed a reason to look up from our lanes.
Photo Credit: Chloe Baker