Where the Stars Light the Nights, New York

I’ve crossed many bridges and scoured all the boroughs. I’ve wandered through the blocks and rode the subway far. I wake up every morning and breathe that New York air. But the city that I know is a city no one knows.

I’m a commuter. I commute. To every nook and cranny. I’ve never solely walked to any place I had to go. They say that walking is specific. Specific to city life. But the only walking that I do is walking from the train.

I’ve passed through many a streets, but not by walking through. I would stare outside the car window as the views ever-change. My mind would wander with the sights I took in.

And because I spent most of my younger years traveling from house to site, New York never felt like home. It felt like a world where things from far and wide converge. I was always on the go. To visit a relative, to walk down the Bronx Zoo, to drive through Times Square, and to watch dragon boats race. And every weekend and every vacation, my family and I would drive to different cities, different states. They all felt so long. A never-ending voyage.

Still today, my trek to school and my journey to other neighborhoods all feel so long. Distant in time yet close in distance.

Actually, I never really knew New York City until recent years. I grew up sheltered, moving from home to school to home to doctor. And despite all the times my father took me around New York, I didn’t consider that as me knowing New York. I didn’t know how to use the subway. Nor did I know that Houston St is not pronounced the same as as Houston, Texas. I didn’t know that Soho and Chinatown are neighbors. Nor did I know what Union Square looks like. I suppose I never felt the urge to explore back then. I was content with staying at home. But when people asked where I was from, I would say “New York City.” Beaming with pride, I hoped they would reply with envy. But the New York City that I live in is not the one they know. Since when does the city have houses decked with vibrant green lawns and wild backyards with massive growing trees whose branches hold three swings? That’s right, my city has that. And since when do people in the city drive a car to get somewhere four blocks away? That’s right, the people in my city do that.

But that’s only one of my views of New York City. The personal one. The one that’s not all like New York City. The one where my dad walks down our road and everyone says hi to him. The one where my neighbors go to church and bring back my family a month’s supply of food. The one where children ride bikes until early evening and teenage boys play basketball on the streets til the dead of night. And everything’s okay. That’s my view of New York City as a “commuter.” A place non-conforming to movie-portrayed ideals.

But at the same time, I also see New York City as a hub of thriving culture, of winding cobblestone roads. Of street performers on every corner and of fancy merchandise sold. Of tourist attractions and of crowded places, filled with people who ignore one another. Of art and music bursting through the air and of diversity, no culture not there. But that’s the New York that most people see and the New York that is boring to me. Well, in the sense that it’s self-evident once you’ve explored this place long enough. I love this New York as an escape from the blandness of my life. But at the end of the day, the New York I really know is the one I grew up in. The New York that doesn’t seem like New York, but it actually, technically is. Where the stars light the nights, and the crickets disturb the silence. Where the tall buildings stand far and I rest home in quiet.