Recollections & Relics of Hart Island
Remembering the lives of New York City’s forgotten and abandoned.
As a Bronx native, my childhood consisted of scenic hikes through Pelham Bay Park, bike rides down Shore Road, and the plethora of seafood on City Island. Although such nostalgic memories may appear cliche, the island and its bay were an escape for a young Bronx kid with an inconsolable amount of energy. Yet, throughout my childhood and adulthood, I was curious about the small island named Hart Island, adjacent to where I would eat my mussels and make a mess out of it.
The scolds and warnings to behave, sit right, and eat properly were not on my mind, as I sat pondering how adventurous it would be to enter the forbidden island. Growing up as an Italian American and Roman Catholic, skulls and death were not invasive thoughts nor necessarily scary. It was the notion of the forbidden that caused my mind to fill with daydreams of action. After questioning many adults around me, I soon realized that most New Yorkers knew nothing of Hart Island and its horrific history. Surprisingly, there are a few who remember concerts on the Island and encountering human remains washed up onto the sand of Orchard Beach. The curiosity of Hart Island would dissipate into the background as life continued and I grew up. Nevertheless, I am still a Bronxite with an immense obsession with the past, cemeteries, and the forbidden.
After receiving my bachelor’s degree at St. John’s University and picking up a knack for genealogy and teaching, I luckily found myself in the Department of Education in the New York City Public School system. Teaching became my vehicle, and genealogy, as well as an obsession for the relics of New York City, turned into my gasoline. Fast forward to November 2019, I somehow received approval to visit Hart Island through a distant relative buried on the island. William Lanigan was born in October 1937 and grew up on Brook Avenue in the Bronx. Not much is known about his life and who he was as a person. Consequently, I felt it necessary to pen his name into eternal memory. William passed away in the Bronx in 2004 and was buried on Hart Island; likely from being unclaimed by relatives.
That November morning, I woke up and with much excitement ran to the docks where I would be admitted entrance to the Island of my wildest imagination. Admittedly, there was a level of guilt and fear, as a New York City Corrections officer began dispossessing me of my phone, book bag, wallet, and other belongings, including mint gum. I felt guilty because I was filled with anticipation to simply view the land of the forgotten, and arguably the neglected. Furthermore, my access to the island was based on the circumstances of a distant cousin. There was a distance between my life and the experience I was about to embark on. I truly had no connection to William nor the island itself, and I felt internal embarrassment. My mind kept racing to the empathetic yet guilt-ridden idea of mothers and fathers being humiliated by correction officers to get a glimpse of their child’s unmarked grave. Yes, that is Hart Island, a land of children, brothers, sisters, and on and on buried in mass plots with no identifiers except a white pillar. I was nervous due to the prejudicial ideas I had of correction officers and whomever else associated with Rikers Island. I was then told to sign paper work that I would not produce a lawsuit against the City of New York if I fell or injured myself on the island. I began to think of how absurd all this was becoming.
All those crippling emotions disappeared when a joyful corrections officer fist pumped me and said, “you ready to go?” I felt ease and passed a sign that would cause me to become an excited child again. The sign read: New York City Corrections Department, Restricted Area, and Prison: Keep Off. There was an industrial ferry waiting just beyond the gates, and I began my long journey of one mile towards Hart Island. I noticed at once that the noises of life and civilization began to become a distant echo. With every wave that hit our ferry, I thought about all the Civil War Confederate soldiers captured, the Yellow Fever victims, and the mentally ill all navigating their existences on this uncharted island. This Island was once the vibrant and beautiful home of Siwanoy indigenous people, and now it became a place to push away New York City’s unwanted.This was a place to rid New York City of its unclaimed dead, the sickly, those suffering from addiction, and youth lacking any guidance. Albeit, throughout its history, Hart Island was a place of jubilation with boxing matches, concerts, and other forms of entertainment. Moreover, there has been a consistent atmosphere of death and melancholy. These were the historical thoughts that ran through my mind as we arrived at the Island of a million souls. No matter its rich history or its harrowing past, Hart Island remains a dumping ground for those deemed undesirable.
When my feet met the mud of such a peculiar place, I was met with a smile from another corrections officer. This smile startled me because he must have sensed my angst and excitement for being in the presence of so many omitted New Yorkers. I mentally registered every outdated lamppost, every crumbling building, the toy factory, and the neglected Church with the eloquent yet shattered Notre-Dame resembling stained-glass window. I kept reminding myself not to reach towards my pocket to grab my phone because it was left in City Island. For once as a millennial, I was forced to take pictures with my heart and mind, not my iPhone. Everything around us was from a scene out of an apocalyptic film, yet it was breathtakingly beautiful; an oasis for the urban soul.
This island was separate from society and lacked any perversion from the contemporary world. There was no sign of vandalism nor littering, only white pillars marking about 150 coffins. Again, the only sign of modernity was a slight sound of honking from City Island, which gave me goosebumps. Finally, after a few minutes of trekking and riding on a Riker’s Island Department of Corrections bus, I reached my destination. I was brought over to a marked part of the Island where my cousin, William Lanigan, was laid to rest. I was overcome with emotion, not because I knew William, but because I was the first family member to ever visit him. Moreover, my tears were not from acute pain or reunification, but from empathy towards those who cannot encounter their loved ones.
My heart was pounding out of frustration and anger towards New York City for allowing Hart Island to be a guarded mystery-land. Nothing traumatic happened on the Island. The Jubilant Corrections Officer did not overwhelm me. Contrary to many stories I have heard, they were delightful. One offered to take a photo of me behind the dilapidated Phoenix Rehab Facility with an old Polaroid camera. Yet, with the exalted respect given to me, I was outraged for the countless mothers who had their children buried on this Island. I was infuriated for the siblings of AIDS victims who did not know where their brother was located on the Island. I was devastated for the daughter who speculated her mother’s remains were floating in the Long Island Sound due to inadequate maintenance of the island. There is a juxtaposition of the Island that no words or photographs can ever explain. Shakespeare nor Proust could ever adequately describe the gloom, but hope this Island gives off its visitors.
The City of New York is continuing the legacy of heartache as Covid-19 victims are being buried on this island. What made the experience seem immoral was the reminder of the island’s inaccessibility. Hart Island is so close yet so far away; that is the tragedy of it all. Of course, allowing prisoners from Rikers Island to work on Hart Island is a beautiful way for many to escape the atrocity of prison life. Yet, Hart Island should not be the solution to an overpopulated and unjust penal system. From what I gathered by the tone and physical presence of the corrections officers, the rationale behind keeping Hart Island under the jurisdiction of the DOC was only a scapegoat to not deal with a grim reality: New York City does a poor job tending to the unwanted.
Perhaps, Covid-19 is a staunch reminder that life is fragile, and we must look out for one another. We are a city that never sleeps, and may we stop sleeping upon those who need help. The transfer of Hart Island from the DOC to the Park’s Department is a step in the right direction. However, the Park’s Department must ensure Hart Island remains free from any perversion of modernity, yet can become accessible to all loved ones wanting to reunite with their unforgotten family members. I left Hart Island mournful, yet tremendously hopeful. I carried the stories of a million individuals back to City Island. I will do my part by teaching my high school students in Jamaica, Queens, about the legacy of our fellow New Yorkers. The first step for improving Hart Island and receiving justice for those millions of New Yorkers is to produce awareness. We all must do our part to remember and speak of those left alone on that gorgeous yet horrific Bronx Island. In a Proust-like reflection, the recollections of things past do not have to remain relics, but can be transported to the vaults of immortality.
Sources:
Davis, Katharine Bement. “The Department of Correction.” Proceedings of the Academy of Political Science in the City of New York 5, no. 3 (1915): 86–97. Accessed July 29, 2021. doi:10.2307/1193404.
Hart Island Project — https://www.hartisland.net
