Coney Island and the American Dream Anonymous

“Look!” I exclaimed as I wildly waved my bucket and spade in the air, “Mom, look at the sandcastle I made!”

My mother let out an amused chuckle. “Interesting, but what else can you make?” she asked with a twinkle in her almond brown eyes.

“I can make footprints in the sand!” I declared as I wriggled my toes into the warm sand. I gazed out across the horizon, which was edged with a silver tint where the sea met the sky. The opera of the ocean threatened to pull me away like a treacherous riptide. Vendors on the beach sold hot dogs and ice cream. A couple of teenagers were playing frisbee. Meanwhile, on the boardwalk, couples strolled hand in hand. Occasionally, they stopped to snap a photo or kiss. From time to time, police officers patrolled the area and ensured that everything was in compliance with the regulations.

Nestled in the southernmost part of Brooklyn, Coney Island is a place where I spent most of my childhood summers. Unfortunately, I have not visited Coney Island with my family since we moved from Brooklyn to suburban Queens. What had been a ten minute drive is now a forty minute drive. My parents saw no need to make that sacrifice every week during the summer months. “Just go to a pool if you want to swim,” they...