There is a unique kind of quiet that blankets the world at six o’clock on an October morning. Sitting by my window with a warm cup of Maveric Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee, I look out into the absolute pitch-black sky. For a brief moment, an old, familiar shadow of anxiety creeps into my mind—the ghost of a routine that governed my life for decades. But then reality catches up, and a wave of profound gratitude washes over me. I am retired. I don’t have to go out into that darkness anymore.
Memories of the Brooklyn Streets
Seeing the pitch-black morning immediately sends me down memory lane, straight back to my working years in New York City. For over thirty years, that early morning darkness wasn’t a time for peaceful reflection; it was a battleground against the clock. I remember leaving my apartment in Brooklyn when the world still looked like midnight. I remember the bracing, icy air and the eerie quiet of the streets before the city fully woke up.
In those early hours, the neighborhood was raw, unpredictable, and frankly dangerous. The streets were populated by people—both the houseless and the regular early risers—who acted as if they were living in an "Open Moon hotel." They didn't give an upstairs about who was watching, sleeping, or walking by as they moaned, screamed, and shouted their erotic requests to the empty air. Navigating that environment as a woman walking alone in the dark was a constant exercise in hyper-vigilance.
A Terrifying Morning on Flatbush
I remember one particularly fearful morning vividly. A brutal storm had completely flooded the New York City Transit system, knocking out the subway lines. Determined not to miss work, I had to drag myself out of the house at 4:30 AM in the pitch black, aiming to make it to downtown Brooklyn where I could board the minibuses and dollar vans heading into Manhattan.
As I walked out toward Flatbush Avenue, the air felt tight. Suddenly, a man across the street to my left shattered the silence, screaming into the void: “I feel like killing somebody this morning!”
My heart leapt into my throat, and I tell you, I almost wet my pants. There wasn’t another living soul on that block—just him on one side of the street and me on the other, wrapped in a terrifying vulnerability. I didn't look back; I just hastened my steps, practically flying toward Flatbush, the main street. The absolute relief I felt when I finally saw other people heading for Church Avenue to board the vans to downtown Brooklyn is something I will never forget. Life wasn’t easy at times, and sometimes, when the memory of that stark terror hits me now, a bit of silent, helpless laughter escapes. How did we survive it? Oh God.
The Crowded Shadow World
Most vividly, I remember the subway stations when they were working. Even in the dead of winter, when the sun wouldn’t dare show itself for another two hours, those underground platforms were already packed to the edges. Thousands of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder under the harsh fluorescent lights—sleep-deprived, bundled up, and waiting to be hauled into Manhattan for work. We were an army of commuters moving through a shadow world.
Navigating a massive transit system in the dark isn't just exhausting; it's a matter of safety. Crowded platforms, slippery winter stairs, and rushing through poorly lit streets add an unnecessary layer of danger to an already arduous routine. It was always less busy and significantly safer once the sun finally peeked over the horizon, but by then, most of us were already clocked in and at our desks. Today, as I watch my grandchildren stir and prepare to face that same morning darkness for school, I find myself wishing we looked at time a little differently.
The Cost of Permanent Daylight Saving Time
This brings us to the endless, modern debate over clock changes. Lately, there has been a heavy push in Washington, such as the Sunshine Protection Act passed by the U.S. House, to make daylight saving time permanent. Proponents love the idea of later evening sun, but they often forget the human cost of the morning. Permanent daylight saving time would mean that during the winter, the sun wouldn't rise until mid-8:00 AM in many places. It would doom millions of early-morning workers and school children to a perpetual, hazardous blackout commute.
Organizations like Save Standard Time argue for the exact opposite, advocating for permanent standard time to ensure our mornings remain bright, predictable, and safe. Having lived that dark commute for the better part of my life—and having faced down the dangerous unpredictability of those pitch-black blocks—I wholeheartedly agree. Morning light isn't just a comfort; it is a shield for the people who keep our society running early in the morning.
Earning the Dawn
As the daylight saving time clock change approaches on Sunday, November 1, 2026, I am content to let the lawmakers argue. My days of fighting for space on a crowded subway platform—and dodging the volatile guests of the Open Moon hotel—are beautifully in the past. I give immense thanks for the decades of strength that got me through those grueling, and perilous mornings. As I take another sip of my Maveric Blue Mountain coffee and look out at the dark streets, I smile. The darkness can stay outside—I’ve officially earned my dawn.
Tah-Tah! Light comes from darkness…birth to a new life.
Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026
P.S. If you think the early-morning characters on the street were the only ones making noise, you don't know Brooklyn! Scandals are practically built into our track record. Who could forget the infamous building over at 7201 Ridge Boulevard in Bay Ridge? It literally made city history for racking up the highest volume of 311 noise complaints for loud lovemaking—with the windows wide open at 4:00 AM! Whether it's on the sidewalk or behind closed doors, Brooklyn has always had its own, very loud, unfiltered rhythm. 😂📣
