A Year in New York.
With August afoot in a matter of days, I return to bestow a wee collection of reflections and rumblings on what my first year in the city has been like. It is no secret that the label of a “newly moved” New Yorker makes those with clocked-in hours (or lifetimes) cringe. There are unspoken stipulations that exist amongst those who have endured enough years and befuddling apartment arrangements to self-qualify as an “New Yorker”. Some of these conditions feel totally arbitrary, but most, if not all, are rightfully determined. I’ve learned to understand and respect why such strong attitudes exist across the city (especially when it comes to city taxes, e.g., teacher’s having 35% of their paychecks withheld).
I’ve learned that a vacant seat on the train should always be filled, that is, if it does not inconvenience others— the only exception being if it is covered with a mysterious substance.
Likewise, I’ve observed that if I take the 7:22am express train on a weekday, as opposed to the one at 7:15, there is virtually no chance of finding a vacant seat. That train is filled with commuting students.
I’ve learned that if you have a friend who works somewhere, with someone, who is a friend-of-a-friend, or “knows someone who can”—you can probably get it done.
I’ve learned to dance often, especially with those I love.
I know to jot down as many locally recommended food joints, cafes, and toppling bookstores as possible—but I’ve also learned to trust my own instincts when it comes to determining where my “special places” are.
Perhaps the most complicated and sensitive subject I’ve learned to navigate this year is my financial status. There are many kinds of people, families, artists, and “experiences” you will encounter just by being uniquely situated within the city. Some of the expectations you have, and what will likely be a great chunk of them, may simply be unavailable to you for one reason or another. No attempts at bargaining with such barriers will work to soften those discrepancies. That is okay. It is far better to be honest about what you can and cannot commit to. And although those decisions might disappoint the expectations others have placed upon you, those decisions are finally only really yours to make.
I’ve learned to make a mantra out of my dreams, to remind myself of why I am exactly where I need to be. To reassure myself that I am slowly but earnestly moving in step with my artistic ambitions. Admittedly, it can feel a bit silly to wake up every morning, scan the state of my living room, and proclaim that “I will fill the room with more art!”. But after all, this is where I am now, this is the future I am so lucky to have in front of me.
When my mother and I tumble into our hour-long phone calls about the goings-on in our lives, without fail, we seem to always arrive at the same exact sentiment. Our lives have always been positioned and shaped for change. From the moment we fled from that small corner of Vologda, there was no possibility of experiencing stillness again in our lives.
To leave, is to change, and there will always be something we are leaving behind, when in pursuit of change.
Sometime ago on the socials, a clip with overlaid text saying “be kind to your parents, it's their first time living too” made its rounds on the web— and to that same tune, I want to remark: be kind to yourself, it is, after-all, your first time too.
It is a spectacular affordance, in all of its constraints and tribulations to be exactly where you are now. Despite any difficulties, bumbling train rides, and the unenthused 2am wails from an overrun A/C, I am so lucky to call this place my home.