I’m not sure when it started, but ever since I can remember,
I knew that I wanted to live in New York City. Blame it on my upstate New York
heritage; always longing for something more exciting. Blame it on my ridiculous
Broadway obsession starting in my teens, or perhaps the cliche Sex and the City
drive that most girls have after they beg their parents for the box set of
DVDs. Whatever the reason, I always felt that once I got to NYC I would be “complete”.
I tried to convince myself that I belonged in New York, it wasn’t just some pipe
dream-NO! I was truthfully a lost child of Manhattan,misplaced in suburbia but
someday I would find my way back to the mother ship. The older I got, the more I
started strategizing exactly how I would get to the big city. Would I try my hand at
singing in the big city? Would I go to college there? Would I move on a whim and
somehow “make it”, find my soul mate on the upper west side and live blissfully
yet fiercely as I proudly wore the “I’m a New Yorker” badge for all to see.
Well, about a year
ago I received the news that I would be moving to New York City- Harlem in
fact. Not the ideal location I was hoping for, but hey! It was New York and I
would never spend any time at my apartment anyway. I’ve been lucky enough to
have good roommates, a great job and amazing friends. It was a fantastic 11 months
in Manhattan, and I am so grateful for
the experience.
So why am I leaving?
In April of this year, I started to feel that I needed to get away from
New York. Too tired, too poor, too frustrated, too exhausted to carry on. When
I would visit friends and family elsewhere, my eyes would water at the site of
the suburbs, the trees, the simple joy of putting groceries, beach chairs,
shopping bags IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR. The
affordability of everything in other cities blew me away. During a night out in
Binghamton, NY, I argued with my friends about taking a cab. It was three
fucking dollars!!!! How were we NOT taking this cab!!?!??!?!?!?? That was a luxury to me! I'm still bitter about that.
Little voices started whispering in my ear. “It’s time to try
something new, you’re young, and you need a break”. Were the voices right?
Perhaps they were, but that did not make it any easier to accept. I hadn’t even
lived here a year and yet I needed a break. I couldn't do it; I’m not cut out
for this. The cold hard truth was, I had been fantasizing for years about how
this city would be my redeeming quality, defining me, solving all my problems,
putting a fabulous label on me.
In reality, living in New York means nothing unless YOU
shape your experience. Just because you live in Manhattan, or Brooklyn, or
Queens, or the Bronx, that does not
mean you are fabulous. It’s just your address. There are millions of people who
live on this island who have never had the luxury of riding in a cab, going out
to eat at a new “hot” restaurant, or seeing a Broadway show. Manhattan is
diverse-yes, but it is also divided. Depending on your income, NYC can either be your playground or you can be its
prisoner. This isn’t meant to be a social commentary on the state of economic
society, merely an account from my perspective as a poor 23 year old girl
living in Harlem but trying to living as if she was from Chelsea. Not to say that I am ashamed of my
neighborhood, not at all, but I found myself drawn to the shiny light of the
Lower East Side, Upper West Side, and Chelsea area where the possibilities are
endless.
Here is the conundrum: how can you fit into those worlds
with the resources you have? As hard as I tried, my clothes never looked like
the other girls, I took the subway instead of cabs and my nights out involved
bars with no covers, no dress codes, and no door men. Every day I watched as
the other girls got off the subway at 72nd street, 86th street, and 103rd
street with their Tory Birch flats, Chloe bags, and Rag and Bone flowing tops,
while I shuffled about in my worn-out sensible shoes and mopped my sweaty brow with my
wrinkled cardigan.
I didn’t understand how they did it. How were they able to
carry on that lifestyle? It was less about their outfits and more about their
demeanor; these girls had this ease about them, as if there were no troubles,
life was just one fabulous adventure after the other. However, for me, I felt
as if I carried my muscles with endless tension, tired and stressed. Nothing was
easy for me. My clothes were strictly Old Navy, my groceries were not from
Whole Foods by any means, and I wore my
worries on my face at all times.
New York is all about who you know. Your connections can help
you get anything in this city, but being new, you have to figure it out on your
own. This is exciting, scary and difficult. You do your research; reading articles
about where to go, who to ask and who to trust.
You learn from your mistakes (which person was rude to you, which person
made you cry, who ripped you off etc.), you also learn that some people will
flat out ignore you, because they can. Developing thick skin is a given, and it’s
actually a blessing in disguise. You stop caring about certain things, or
dwelling on other people’s bad vibes; you become a lot feistier, and a lot harder. Even after you leave the
city, you still carry the aggression, the “don’t fuck with me” mantra.
I’m enough to handle
as it is, without the added attitude that naturally develops after 3 months of city
living. Nothing comes easy in New York; dinner reservations, apartments, jobs,
relationships. After 9 months, I became tired of being on
the defense all the time; I wanted things to be effortless, like they were back
home, or in Rochester, or anywhere else.
It’s like this city is an organic being
made of steel, colors, sounds, lights, smells, elements, and danger. This
obstacle course that you have to navigate. Others cities don’t feel that way to
me. It was as if other cities welcomed
me and assisted me on my journey to nirvana.
Therefore, the little voices kicked in; “It’s time to try
something new”, “Is it time to for a change of pace”.How could this be?!
What are they talking about?! Why isn’t a fabulous NYC life as a 20-something
what I thought it would be? Why have I failed?!
Did I fail or did I realize
something at the right time? Perhaps my New York experience is leading me to
the pivotal point in my mid-twenties. Maybe this year was the rest stop on the
road to what I am truly meant to be doing. I can’t fault New York City for that,
can I? NYC showed me one extreme; exposed me to the pinnacle of what the human
experience can be, and I suppose I took that and decided I was ready to
become exposed to something else.
As much as I wish, I could be the girl who moved to New
York, found a great job, great apartment and never left- that will not be my
story. The City and I have our own epic love story that will involve interludes
and personal development in between our love fests. We are on a break right
now. It’s time that I pursue other cities to be entirely sure that NYC is the
one.
So here I am, in Washington, DC. I've bee here for exactly one week. I strangely feel at peace. I have a big girl job, a beautiful
apartment in a neighborhood that feels like home. Only time will tell how this
pans out. The good news is; since I’ve moved to a town where I know virtually
no one! I will have an abundance of time
to re-start my blog! “And I Can’t Help But Wonder: DC Edition”. Stay tuned
folks.
