Just about the first two questions I received upon arriving in New York City on Friday—where I went this weekend for my brother’s not-really-at-all-impulsive wedding (sorry, J)–were these:
From my best friend R, who I called in the cab from LaGuardia: “Welcome home! Oh sorry—is it strange for me to call New York ‘home’?””
From my mother, who I met near her East 92nd street office for a pre-wedding blowdry as we powered down Lexington during rush hour: “Oh! Are you having culture shock? Do you always have culture shock when you come back here, still?”
I am inclined to say I had no clue how to answer either of these questions—but, in fact, my real-time response to each one was a fairly assured ‘no.’
As in: no, it’s not strange at all to refer to New York as “home.” I was born here, it’s where virtually my entire family still lives and where my parents still occupy the house in which I grew up.
And: no, while I regularly tell of a consistently violent cultural jolt each time I visit the city, even when it was only from DC (Aaaah! Everyone’s more stylish than I am! And skinnier! And walking with even more speed and apparent urgency!), it seems that nine years of fairly regular ins-and-outs has numbed the shock.
Which makes sense. And, you’d think, would be a positive: these days the ten hours of non-direct air travel and whiplash jetlag of a two-day trip is enough trauma, thanks.
But, this time, I found my unusual lack of response to be an unexpected source of frustration.
I often explain that whenever I come home I am beset with one of two polar reactions: either I am enamored with the city—energized, enthralled, giddily nostalgic for the freneticism and walkability, the infallible access to a decent pedicure and delicious slice of late-night pizza. Or, I am repulsed: claustrophobic in the crowds, horrified by the subway delays, infuriated by the ever-escalating price of a metrocard and a pint.
Deep down I understand that my response has nothing to do with what’s happening in New York and everything to do with how I’m feeling. And yet, I like to consider it a passive process: I anticipate with some excitement which one will take place. I embrace the notion that the city is acting on me, not vice versa.
As I continually wrestle with the question of ever returning to live there, I expect my reactions to the city to provide some kind of tarot card: to will tell me whether I should come back or I shouldn’t, whether I’ll be happy there or I won’t. It’s as though I expect that, somehow, the decision will be made for me.
When I speak of my relationship with New York, I use the language of destiny: “I’m not sure,” I pronounce, “whether I’m meant to end up there.” And then I get frustrated when the signposts don’t cooperate.
There’s comfort in thinking that our choices are pre-destined: that we’re following some ordained, inflexible life path and that everything that should happens to us, will. The truth, of course, is that our lives can take inumerable shapes: that each day we make decisions with varying degrees of consequence.
I like to tell myself that everything happens for a reason–but it’s equally, and always, true that other things could happen, for other reasons.
Which means I must accept the fact that there’s no answer to the question of whether I’m meant to be in New York–only whether I will. And unfortunately (though, I know, fortunately too) that’s something only I–not the city, or the MTA, or some existential cartography–can decide.
You nailed it. xoxoxxx
What Froggy Toad said.
Thank you sweet girls. Much love.
right on. especially the part about to polar reactions. and now i’m right on your heels. hello midwood.
we are fated to never see one another within two thousand miles of Kings County. why god why? have fu-un!