POUGHKEEPSIE, NY – When I took a job teaching literature and writing at Vassar College in the summer of 2005, a colleague told me that Poughkeepsie – less known to some as the Queen Town of the Hudson – was a city caught in post-industrial decline. I had a vague idea of what it looked like: condemned houses and offices, the carcass of dead factories with broken windows and overgrown grass, rusting cars, crumbling businesses.
I had good reason to think so. At the turn of the 19th century, factories here produced glass, beer, natural wood stains, clothing, furniture and more. During World War II, the IBM Poughkeepsie The factory – one of the largest and most important manufacturing sites in the company’s history – was awarded a contract to produce ammunition. In the years following the war, the company turned to typewriters, among other things, and then computers. As the area’s main employer until their withdrawal in the 1980s, the factory was the backbone of the town’s economy.
But in the decades that followed, local manufacturing moved elsewhere. In the 1990s, the city struggled to find its economic anchor. But that is changing. Today, the local economy is built around service industries like health care, education, and tourism.
The Poughkeepsie of my imagination lacked the people who lived in the city. Long before factories and scholars moved there, the Wappinger people, who lived along the east bank of the Hudson River from Manhattan Island to the Connecticut River Valley, lived in this area. The word Poughkeepsie comes from the Wappinger word U-puku-ipi-sing, which means “reed-covered pavilion by the little body of water”.
Those of us whose lives are centered on campus often have little interaction with the city, but outside of that college bubble is a diverse community. I see it at my son’s indoor football games during the winter. And when the snow gives way to scorching summer days, many locals find some relief at the Wappinger Creek swimming hole.
To reach the water, you must jump over a metal fence and descend a narrow path through dense vegetation. The creek is divided by a large mound of dirt where grass and trees grow; from one hangs a rope that people use to swing in the water.
In May, I returned to my hometown, Patna, India. My trip coincided with the Hindu festival Akshaya Tritiya, when, according to legend, the holy river Ganga descended from heaven to earth. It was also Eid al-Fitr, which marks the end of the dawn-to-sunset fasting month of Ramadan.
On the promenade by the Ganges, I saw young Muslim men dressed in brightly colored kurtas moving among the crowds of students sitting on the steps and girls taking selfies by the water’s edge. Even though the groups did not mix, I was struck by the fact that the wide promenade allowed for a common demonstration of difference. At that point, I was taken back to Wappinger Creek, where people of different skin colors share the space, in some cases their tangled limbs.
Growing income inequality, religious or ethnic tensions, and a punitive pandemic have pushed so many of us to the brink. Yet I can’t help but think that if there are public spaces where crowds of all kinds can freely gather, there is still hope for democracy.
No “closed” signs, no abandoned buildings, no dry talk of post-industrial decline. The stream is flowing but time has stood still. There is no burden of history here. You are with your friends, afloat in the water. It’s not just your body – it even seems like your breathing is finally weightless.
Caleb Stein is a New York based photographer. Amitava Kumar teaches at Vassar College and is the author of “A Time Outside This Time”.