by Laura J.

 

Only a few months after moving to this city, I had already named myself a New Yorker and defined my relationship with New York City as complicated. This semester, both through the course work and my own experiences, I have begun to understand the vastness of people residing in the city. With so many individuals in a concentrated form, a complex (sometimes harsh but other times gratuitous) environment is bound the emerge. In order to properly present my relationship with the city, I will explain three significant experiences I had this spring.

  1. It was not long after moving to the city when I first heard about the possibility of buying a quality pizza slice for a mere dollar. Though constantly passing signs advertising dollar pizza, I had always been too busy to stop and buy a slice, until this spring. It felt like fate –I had only a single crumpled up dollar bill in my pocket, that was begging to put my growling tummy to rest. This still very much winter-weather night, was the perfect opportunity to try the warm and much anticipated pizza slice. Of course, I eagerly bit into it as soon as I received it, only to have the layer of cheese sear the flesh on the roof of my mouth. And if you cannot already understand my relationship with the city from this instance, I will continue.
  2. Midtown does not have any benches. Well, I may be wrong in saying this but I am not wrong in saying that if benches do exist in Midtown, they cannot be found in any place they are needed. I learned this the hard way, a couple months ago. I, in the midst of my teenage years, was experiencing a far too dramatic break-up. It was a phone call that I made on 55th street between 6th and 7th, on my way to work, that cut the ties between me and my high school beaux. Pacing up and down the street, as everyone tends to do while on the phone, I grew physically tired and emotionally fatigued by the conversation –I needed to sit down. But where? There were no benches! When the phone call finally ended and I was crying in public (like a real New Yorker would), I was brought little comfort by the ground that I had no choice but to sit on.
  3. Now, I like to think that I am an adventurous woman. But I cannot say that I am often keen on venturing to the outer boroughs. Manhattan is where I live, work and play –I hardly ever find the need to go elsewhere. However, one night this spring, I found myself visiting a friend of mine in Bedford-Stuyvesant. It was getting pretty late, nearly 2AM, and I was ready to head back to Manhattan, but the friends that I had arrived with cared to stay. So, I made the poor decision of taking the train home to Harlem, alone. I was dozing off on the N only to be awoken by an incoherent drunk hovering over me. As he shouted, his spit spewed and hit me in the face. I could not move away, as he was blocking me, so I began to call for help from the commuters on the other side of the train car. Two men removed their headphones upon hearing my shouts, evaluated the scene and then continued to put their headphones on and ignore my pleas. That was when the drunk slapped me across the face.

These three terrible events were all local to this beloved city.  However, there is more to each of these stories –that’s why and where my relation with the city gets perplexing.

  1. Yes, the flesh on the roof of my mouth came to resemble the stalactite of a cave due to the scorch of the pizza –But, the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop was right next door, the necessary apothecary for my wound. The cold ice cream made the pizza’s betrayal forgettable for a few heavenly minutes. You can only get ice cream that is both big and gay in this glorious city.
  2. So, there I was, crying on the sidewalk with my back supported by a building in the middle of Midtown and genuinely upset over the lack of benches. I became angered with the Dutch settlers and everyone that followed for establishing such a miserable place. Then, a man approached me. Having obviously felt bad for my pathetic condition, he gifted me with a free pass to the MoMA and then walked away. Shortly afterwards, a woman appeared out of Chop’t Salad and gave me a full salad and drink. They were strangers—They were fellow New Yorkers that were trying to provide love to a girl who had just lost it.
  3. Slapped by a drunk on the N train in Brooklyn. That is a sentence I would never have imagined relating to. Not only because the N train is irrelevant as soon as it crosses the East River, but also because I trusted the city and everyone in it –perhaps too much. Post-slap, I was rescued. Not by the men with their headphones, but by a wonderful woman. She made her way over from the other side of the car and got in between the drunk and me. Upon seeing her big body, spiked purple hair and comparatively darker skin, he retreated. My heroine grabbed my hand and brought me to the safe side of the train car. And although she lectured me the entire way about being a young girl alone at night, she accompanied me all the way back home –only departing when she knew I was in the safety of my home.

When it comes down to it, my feelings towards the city can be wrapped up in the song “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down”. With so many people, each with complex histories, in such a tight vicinity with one another, chaos is bound to ensue. Sometimes it is the chaos that fuels the ever-reforming city. Other times, it is the chaos that incentivizes animosity and isolation, even in the crowds. This is not the city that Edgar Allan Poe took long walks in nor the city that suffered third-degree burns in the aftermath of the 1863 draft riots. This is the city mired with homeland security and Pret-A-Manger. It is a different city, every second –rapidly modifying simply due to the multitudes of individuals. It is the people of New York City that have built my home –and I am happy to be a builder too.