I’ve been living on the left side of the continent for almost 6 years now – having left Brooklyn for Alaska, then south to California’s bay area. At first I hated this state – the car culture, weird non-weather and lack of pizza was off-putting – but that has changed. I’m not interested in settling here, but do enjoy it. Technically hometown is in RI, but I never miss it; when I do it means I’m deeply depressed or agitated. I was eighteen when I moved to New York. As we crossed the Connecticut/New York state line, I looked around and noticed that every driver within view was black. I experienced a spasm of panic, not because I was afraid of black people – real, tangible cultural diversity was overwhelming. New York didn’t just mean more kinds of people, it meant people who didn’t know me and, even better, didn’t care to. Anonymity was a relief and the world cracked open around me; no one was watching. New York is moody and endlessly changing – just walking around made me feel like a small, pointless part of something enormous and beautiful. Feeling insignificant was liberation. The noise and chatter made the silent still moments more palpable and when it rained the city felt honest. I use the past tense, but these are qualities that still exist. The more critical of my formative growing happened there and I’ll always love it, the way we feel affection for former lovers; it became a part of me. Even the ugly things I did there have turned lustrous with time. I left in 2003 with no realistic plan to return. I was very sick. What you must understand about living in New York is balance. Urban life has its difficulties; when the good things cease to outnumber the difficulties, you must move or else everything closes in on you. Now I often find myself very homesick, but am not entirely willing to return – it’s unclear whether there would be anything to gain and there’s still so much space out here to change and different directions to take. Between visits I put myself there; there is music that puts me there, and sometimes it happens with the rain or the smell of urine. I can stand on busy corners, thinking of concrete and bodies, seeing other buildings and meaningful street signs that exist 3,000 miles away; and I remember to be human.
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