Independence in NYC
I’m one of those cliché country-girl-comes-to-the-big-city stories. The kind where I had daisy dukes and straw hat—only to be welcomed by the asthma-inducing exhaust, crack heads, and sewer rats of New York City.
I spent the last semester in college working at Applebees as I barely passed a physics final to earn a useless degree. All with idealistic hopes of saving the world when I got here, being armed only with an organizer job at a non-profit, a place to stay, and no need for a car. Hopes that were earmarked by a drunken karaoke rendition of—you guessed it—Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York”, with a few lines tailored to my story.
My idealism was slightly daunted when at the end of my time in the south; I paid off the storage space, credit cards, and plane tickets… then didn’t have a dime to bring with me. On the way to the airport, my dad, as intuitive as he is asked if I had any money. In response to the shamed shake of my head he gave me $300.
That was the last of his charitable donations.
Little did I know that in New York dollars, three hundred ain’t shit. Lucky for me, though, the ex-nunnery in the Bronx where I stayed didn’t demand rent until I and the other summer interns received our first paychecks.
I was placed as a tenant organizer for ACORN in Brooklyn. Despite the set back of the commute, I accomplished a few small feats like: conducting leadership meetings against a Flatbush slumlord, organizing protests to preserve Brooklyn’s parade grounds, coordinating a segment on NY1 about dangerous vacant lots in East New York, and rallying with David Dinkins. I had to quit after only four months.
I was defeated. I was homesick. I was poor. I was stupid and naïve. I moved from the Bronx to East New York to Harlem to Bed Sty and finally settled near Bushwick. Before I got on the plane, I didn’t even know how the city was laid out from borough to borough until I saw it on a subway map, then found out later that the map was grossly out of proportion.
Other things I learned was that down south, racism is black and white. In New York City, it’s African American vs. Hasidic Jews, Dominicans vs. Puerto Ricans, Italians vs. their stereotypes.
Down south, a three-bedroom house with garage, front and back yards, a tree house and a family of possums is a mere $500 a month. In New York City, 1000 square foot room in a scary neighborhood can up cost up to $2,200.
Down south it takes five minutes to travel five miles. In New York City, it can take just under an hour on a train that feels justified in charging an additional 50 cents a ride for notably shittier service. That’s one whole dollar a day to the single girl and half a cup of coffee at Starbucks.
To think one of my luckier moments was when I called in sick on September 11, 2001. With my roommates, I watched the towers fall—the only two buildings in the Manhattan skyline you could see from my apartment.
To get a grip on myself after all this, I worked various 9-5 jobs as I forged a career in writing. The very career I avoided in college because my boyfriend’s mother would sneer and ask, “How would you make a living doing that?” On a whim I took a screenwriting class which led me to write two feature scripts and produce 2.5 short films of my own.
To sum it up, New York City is one giant anxiety attack. I’ve found that it drives normally nice, compassionate people to dick you over just to survive. Then they become rock stars as you’re struggling to pay off what they owe you in bills.
Now thousands upon thousands of dollars of debt, over a year of unemployment, a few proverbial burnt bridges, and the longest blackout in US history later, I can fairly say New York City has kicked my ass.
But I don’t regret moving here, hell no, I don’t. I actually feel a kinship with my fellow New Yorkers. Even the homeless ones who prefer their marshmallow pies over the ham sandwiches I have to offer. New York, to me, is kind of like that friend everyone has that’s annoying and pisses them off. But you can’t just let them go. You’ve just been through too much together.
Besides, I haven’t lost more than I’ve gained. I don’t live for this, but anytime I go home and say I live in New York City, expressions are often of awe because those little country bumpkins know the line in Frank’s song is true: if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.