One Year, NYC

Today, December 1st, it is officially one year since Alex and I jumped off our desert cliff and into an East Coast abyss of snow, wet heat, subway life– and trash– trash everywhere.

Living in New York City has been an adventure.

I remember exactly one year ago landing here and having to go straight into the city to get my fingerprints done for my new job as a teacher. I took a cab and waited in the traffic– beaming the whole ride there, though the car smelled like a literal piece of poop was hidden somewhere in the seats, and I had no idea just how expensive and long the ride would be over the bridge and into Brooklyn. Alex beat me to our new, empty apartment– promising me on the phone that the place was so cool and that I would love it. Poor Alex. I distinctly recall throwing a huge fit (and a…suitcase) once I walked through the door…the place hadn’t been cleaned after the last tenant. There was trash on the ground and *cringe* hair in the bathroom.

It was 6 in the evening and, after crying my eyes out wondering what in GOD’s name we’d just signed up for, we took an uber to the nearest Target in Queens (which we haven’t been to since…cause, Queens). We tore the place up buying cleaning supplies and a kitchen items. We splurged on the nicest air mattress we could find and bought some towels. Hundreds of dollars later, we realized that we had no car, no trunk, and no way to carry our bags to the curb, except for our hands. (In New York City, you can’t even push carts out of stores. An alarm will go off.) So we made fools of ourselves, carrying 30 bags between each other, down the escalator, to the filthy sidewalk, waiting for another Uber to take us “home.” We spent the rest of the night cleaning our new place and we ate takeout on our air mattress in front of Netflix on my little laptop. It was an incredibly difficult night, and the next day was my first day at work.

As the weeks progressed, even after we moved all of our furniture here the next month, I would go to work and come straight home, nervous to walk alone in our neighborhood. The smells had my stomach nauseated regularly, and I had a staring problem every where we went. (Which, in hindsight, could’ve gotten us into big trouble.) On the subway, I saw things that no one should ever see. I never walked fast enough for the locals zooming past us and bumping into my bag. And I was scared of every person who came on the train asking for money.

Now, one whole year later, I am proud to say that I know how to live here.

I even enjoy it.

I know which line I’d have to take when someone says they live in the Upper West Side or the Flat Iron District or Chelsea. (And also, that we’ll probably never come over to your house if you live on the other side of Brooklyn.)

I traded in my giant, pretty bag for a very small cross-shoulder one.

The blisters on my feet have calloused over.

And I can tell you exactly what kind of garbage you’re smelling, always tinted with a hint of urine. 

New York City has beaten the hell out of Alex and I.

It’s clear that only the strong and determined can survive out here, much less begin to appreciate this place.

That is why I feel honored and warm inside to type out this sentence:

New York City is my friend now.

At first, she was dirty and smelly and mean.

She said “NO” all the time and was really aggressive. She couldn’t remember our names and she wouldn’t lend us any new friends or any meals that were less than $20 a plate.

She would force the sun to go down by 4:30pm in the winter and the snow storms were NOT fun. (I didn’t see one snowman last January.) The cold would cut through our clothes.

Sirens were constantly blaring, my ears always ringing.

People were screaming at each other in the streets.

Uber drivers almost killed us on a regular basis.

In our house, we curled up on the couch exhausted, just from walking to get groceries.

At work and at church, I didn’t know if someone was joking with me or if someone just didn’t like me. (I’m convinced that the further east you go, the more direct Americans become.) On the west side of the country, we take our time letting you know that we don’t like you or that you’re in our way. Here on this tiny island, you can know exactly how someone feels about you in ten seconds flat.

In a nut shell, NYC got in some serious jabs and heavy hazing for these new kids, living in the hood. We were almost down for the count.

Then, one day,
we were lost in Brownsville, Brooklyn.
A large man with a construction vest on asked angrily, “Where you gotta go?”Alex and I shyly told him which line we needed. And he, in his fantastic Brooklyn-Pops accent, pointed us in the right direction. We laughed all the way there because, though some would consider that man rude, we didn’t. He actually wanted to help us.

Another day, I finally got brave enough to turn around and see who was screaming at who in our neighborhood. I stopped to look and it was two old guys, laughing and shaking hands.

On another occasion, Alex’s barber met my mom when she was visiting. Now he waves at us from the window whenever we walk by.

Once, I used Spanish in our grocery store to find garlic, but I didn’t know how to say “garlic.” The guy stocking the vegetable section just laughed and led me all the way to the aisle I needed. We never really knew what the other was saying aside from that.

Another quiet day on the train, a bent over homeless man came in and sang a hymn. He stomped and shook his cup of change to keep time. I felt reverent and even teared up.

Then, there was this crazy morning when I got on the wrong bus. Everyone noticed I was flustered and asked what I needed. They saw my bus across the street and all of them cheered me on to run and catch it. I caught it.

Looking back on this past year, I keep seeing all these moments when hope floods into these “mean streets” through human kindness and beauty.

In retrospect, New York City has been good to us.

I like to think that we earned her respect by sticking it out long enough and standing in all those horrendous, mile long lines: bathroom lines, food lines, church lines, grocery store lines. L I N E S ! Also, using public restrooms. That definitely showed her we were tough enough and brave enough to be trusted.

For some reason, God has used this crazy, loud, filthy place to usher in His still small voice and a quiet year. It has been a beautiful time for us– though we’ve had our ups and downs, NYC is on our good side, and we’re on hers too.

I’ve never seen this place in the fall, and the leaves fall from so high up, swooping down in reds and oranges and yellows. My first graders throw big piles of them up in the air at recess.

I take shortcuts in our neighborhood now and I like walking home. I met a lady a few houses down who is from Italy and has been living on our street for 30 years. She doesn’t have any teeth but she’s wonderful and is always outside.

I just wanted to write this as an ode to the beautiful journey we’ve started out here.
We’ve lived some hilarious, amazing stories. I used to complain a lot about how hard this place is, but once you get the hang of it, it is a wonderful one to live in.

Don’t know if it’s forever, but we are thankful to be here now.
I like living here. I want to keep living here.

Though most of what people say of her is true, I think New York City is just misunderstood. Though she’s rough around the edges, she’s really nice once you get to know her.

Underneath all that graffiti, there’s a hundred-year old building.

On most street corners, you can hear 3+ different languages.

And she goes all out at Christmas time.

So happy one-year anniversary, New York City!
I’m glad we met you and I’m glad we stayed.