Living in New York City is all that a romantic like me could fathom.
If I had lived here in another stage of my life, I think my journal log would be all about all the swanky restaurants, glamorous clothing, and beautiful people I see walking around. And while seeing Vizzini from The Princess Bride purchasing pasta at Dean & Delucca makes me happy, it's been the very mundane hours I've spent on the subway that has given me "my New York experience" and the sweetest insight on humanity. Ohh, and a new joy of watching strangers:
Now I've been a patron of many countries public transport, and I feel I could write a book about all the experiences I've had. I still blush when I remember the Italian man who exposed "himself" to me on a bus in The Vatican City. Of all places, The Vatican. But only in New York do I feel so moved by the civility.
I see a ruffian thug giving his seat to an old women with shopping bags, and him breaking a smile (the first since I got on the Uptown-2 train at Columbus Circle, and started watching him) when she pats his cheek in thanks.
It's on the train that I see people fight and make-up with their lovers. Where a mother discuses with a father, when they should bathe the child- before or after dinner tonight? And so many take-out boxes open with steaming lunch, being quickly eaten before reaching their stop.
The subway train is like a living room with friends chatting and listening to music, and sometimes a bedroom. A man fell asleep on my shoulder, and woke up in embarrassment when he realized. (I just smiled.)
A group of Teenagers read magazines and swap comics back and forth. A woman texts "home in twenty, what are you making for dinner? :)" to her husband.
On a morning journey to Brooklyn a man kept looking at me. I couldn't help but notice, and not feel a little self-conscious. When he stood up, his artist pencils went flying off his lap and I saw that he had been sketching my profile.
And while I have been observant watching the happenings on the train, the most memorable experience, one that I have no expectation to have "topped", is the man reading his book. What book? I have no idea. I wish I could have seen more clearly.
I was sitting across from him, watching him read intently. At some point, he lowers the book from his face to his lap, and places his right hand up to his heart. He drops his head, closes his eyes and brings his lips together as he breathes in and sighs out.
He's at home- transported from the subway at that moment to a most beautiful place. I can only imagine what might make someone feel so moved. In books we find our place. Our home. Our truth. Ideas and thoughts and feelings that become our own.
And the passage this man has just read has given him the most sublime feeling... forgetting the world, and feeling something that transcended the subway car we were both sitting in.
Thank you for giving me this beautiful gift, NYC. You have been the most lovely backdrop and facilitator for the strongest feeling of love. Home. Humanity. My heart is just one of thousands (millions?) of souls, seeking, searching and finding peace...and yes, to feel at home.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday, November 13, 2009
My Kenyan Family
I arrived to JFK early. And with no bags to check, went immediately to my gate. My backpack rested heavy on my shoulders, and I was consumed with no other goal but to find a seat to melt into, while I waited to fly home on my evening flight.
Also waiting for this flight, an African man, his wife and small child. I could only understand a small amount of what he said to the airport employee. How he was traveling from Kenya, by way of Istanbul and New York City, on to Seattle. For two days, he and his family had been traveling. "You missed your 6:30 flight and you'll need to repurchase tickets to travel to your final destination, if you plan to still go there", the gate agent informed. From the concern and near despair I could feel from standing next to this man, I stepped in. "But he was detained in Immigration after his flight from Istanbul! This wasn't his fault!", I advocated.
It didn't matter- and tickets had to be purchased if they planned to leave New York City, and of course they would need to leave. A cousin was waiting for them in a city far across the country. A single room had been set up for this family, to house them as they made the US their new home.
They had exactly two hundred dollars to their name, and for three tickets, that would only get one of them to their new home. I spent what money I had to help them with the tickets. Having become unemployed exactly one week previous, I wondered if I really had the freedom to help. As I began to rethink the scope of my generosity, a feeling more powerful than anything I have experience before, came upon me. Like when a mother protects her young, these tired Kenyan travelers were mine. Of course I would help. I would protect them. There was no question. Tickets in hand, we sat and talked- the husband and I. His wife and two year old son leaned against him, sleeping.
My Kenyan family. Starting a new life in a new culture and world. Simple English spoken by my new friend, taught me that they had been saving for years for this journey. For this new life. To finally come to America, and become everything they dreamed possible.
Is it true I can start my own business here, someday?
How expensive are coats?
And I can study in school and have a degree in any subject I want?
What about a cell phone- have you seen one of those? You have one?!
Four of the six hours in flight he spent asking me these questions. And as I answered, I saw something change in his countenance. Every word my mouth said, he watched and listened intently. Shaking his head in agreement. "Yes, of course I can get a cell phone." He smiled at me, already knowing the answer. But he continued with the questions, testing my response to the suspicions of his dreams.
I could see him falling asleep next to me. His travel documents zipped safely in his cloth briefcase, held firmly in his hands next to his chest. And as he dreamed deeper into this wonderful world- the world he was going to create with his family, he lost grip of his briefcase. He caught it before it fell to the plane floor, with his eyes closed and half awake, a smile appeared on his face. He had a wide world before him, made bittersweet by the balance of happiness and and reality of struggle surely to come. But this would be their home. The place he will grow old, with his wife. Where they will raise their young son, and one day tell him about the long journey from Kenya.
I couldn't sleep. I stared at the family for the entire journey. I felt impressed by their faith in my country. "America, please don't let them down!", I begged.
I sat there reflecting on my own home, and how fearful I would be to leave it never to return- at that moment, realizing how good my life is. How easy it is for me.
And if my blessings weren't numerous enough, of all the people in this world to meet these hopeful souls, it was me.
My Kenyan Family.
Also waiting for this flight, an African man, his wife and small child. I could only understand a small amount of what he said to the airport employee. How he was traveling from Kenya, by way of Istanbul and New York City, on to Seattle. For two days, he and his family had been traveling. "You missed your 6:30 flight and you'll need to repurchase tickets to travel to your final destination, if you plan to still go there", the gate agent informed. From the concern and near despair I could feel from standing next to this man, I stepped in. "But he was detained in Immigration after his flight from Istanbul! This wasn't his fault!", I advocated.
It didn't matter- and tickets had to be purchased if they planned to leave New York City, and of course they would need to leave. A cousin was waiting for them in a city far across the country. A single room had been set up for this family, to house them as they made the US their new home.
They had exactly two hundred dollars to their name, and for three tickets, that would only get one of them to their new home. I spent what money I had to help them with the tickets. Having become unemployed exactly one week previous, I wondered if I really had the freedom to help. As I began to rethink the scope of my generosity, a feeling more powerful than anything I have experience before, came upon me. Like when a mother protects her young, these tired Kenyan travelers were mine. Of course I would help. I would protect them. There was no question. Tickets in hand, we sat and talked- the husband and I. His wife and two year old son leaned against him, sleeping.
My Kenyan family. Starting a new life in a new culture and world. Simple English spoken by my new friend, taught me that they had been saving for years for this journey. For this new life. To finally come to America, and become everything they dreamed possible.
Is it true I can start my own business here, someday?
How expensive are coats?
And I can study in school and have a degree in any subject I want?
What about a cell phone- have you seen one of those? You have one?!
Four of the six hours in flight he spent asking me these questions. And as I answered, I saw something change in his countenance. Every word my mouth said, he watched and listened intently. Shaking his head in agreement. "Yes, of course I can get a cell phone." He smiled at me, already knowing the answer. But he continued with the questions, testing my response to the suspicions of his dreams.
I could see him falling asleep next to me. His travel documents zipped safely in his cloth briefcase, held firmly in his hands next to his chest. And as he dreamed deeper into this wonderful world- the world he was going to create with his family, he lost grip of his briefcase. He caught it before it fell to the plane floor, with his eyes closed and half awake, a smile appeared on his face. He had a wide world before him, made bittersweet by the balance of happiness and and reality of struggle surely to come. But this would be their home. The place he will grow old, with his wife. Where they will raise their young son, and one day tell him about the long journey from Kenya.
I couldn't sleep. I stared at the family for the entire journey. I felt impressed by their faith in my country. "America, please don't let them down!", I begged.
I sat there reflecting on my own home, and how fearful I would be to leave it never to return- at that moment, realizing how good my life is. How easy it is for me.
And if my blessings weren't numerous enough, of all the people in this world to meet these hopeful souls, it was me.
My Kenyan Family.
My Home.
I'm taking a break from packing up the chartreuse linen dinner napkins, white ceramic platters, and all the invented, never executed, dinner parties I planned to have with them. Almost four years ago I was opening these items up- wrapped in ivory paper and silk ribbon, for my wedding. And before that, I was choosing how many serving sets I should put on my Registry. "Would we have six or eight friends come over for dinner", I asked Him.
Eight short stemmed water glasses nestle together in the large box. Square plates- the small ones we always joked to each other were "perfect for portion control" file in, and I am reminded of when I last packed these up. Bare, nothing wrapped around them to keep them safe, I hurriedly packed and left that home. My home with Him.
"Home" evokes so many thoughts for me. From my teenage powder blue bedroom, and counting the ceiling tiles in our 50's era home, to my first real home on the hill, with my Great Grandparents. In every sense of the word, "Home", this house was that. I shared the top floor of this home with my mother, and for a short time my father before they divorced and he moved back to his home country. Every cliche was experienced here: I baked with Grandma, and helped clean the smelt my grandfather fished for. I practiced my violin in my room- the one at the top of the stairs, my mother listening not too far off, making sure I was working on my recital song, Humoresque. This home, it was happy.
With Him, there was always a struggle of Home. How to decorate it, how to treat it- and more than anything, how you should feel in it.
I'm sure if you studied my spending habits in the last four years, it was all centered around home furnishings. I added to the vintage book collection almost weekly, and the amount of pillows on the couch was the subject of many jokes. But to me, this was my effort- my grasping- at making 140th Street home. Some people are emotional eaters. I am an emotional spender, and decorator- a frustrated artist that has been searching for the perfect expression to put on the canvas.
My home now, a one room studio in a neighborhood much hipper and chic than me, has suited me well. I remember the night I walked in. I was early, and that worked to my advantage as apartment number 9, with new bamboo floors and pedestal sink was coveted by a long list of other home-searching hopefuls. I cried as I signed the lease, and Marco, the owner and intuitive landlord asked "Was this your decision or His?"
I moved in, and with sparse walls and high ceilings, this place felt immeasurably larger than it does today. I played my vinyl Carole King albums on the turntable for the first month straight. If there was ever a person who understood this pain, it would be her. At night, Carole and I would cook a meal of rice and a rotating flavor of Trader Joe's curry. Inviting someone over was out of the question. "Here, sit on my bed and eat dinner!" So, in this year, I ate more than a thousand meals by myself. Drinking the calm of being alone, and feasting on the ability to chose how I live and what my home feels like. This was a meal I liked.
I watched a beautiful movie- a movie I will sweetly remember always as mine. And I had a powerful response to a character, my kindred spirit, who put this feeling in words:
"Sitting there, alone..., far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I'd never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was something I'd forgotten or something I've been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive."
My sadness which once felt inconsolable and eternal, has been buffered to create this feeling I can only explain as being "alive". I have traveled much further than I ever thought possible- and yes, I am nearly home.
I am returning to my first home. To the Great Grandmother I learned to bake with. I am now her caretaker and companion. Being nearly 100 years with all the ailments that brings, I have determined it the time for me to go back home now.
I feel proud I can do this for her. Whether this is for five months or five years, it will be a sacrifice- for both her and me. But sacrifice is one of the flavors of home, so I am not so worried.
Putting aside the boxes with all my seasonal decorations, I plan to surprise her with white festive lights and red-bowed wreaths. I feel repentant for not doing this last year, or the 18 years before that she's been alone. That maybe my nativity set will be more redeeming than ever. Even if it's only for me, perhaps.
Home, if you can hear me, I am coming.
With Carole, silver serving set, and many desires- most of all, to be alive- yes alive.
Eight short stemmed water glasses nestle together in the large box. Square plates- the small ones we always joked to each other were "perfect for portion control" file in, and I am reminded of when I last packed these up. Bare, nothing wrapped around them to keep them safe, I hurriedly packed and left that home. My home with Him.
"Home" evokes so many thoughts for me. From my teenage powder blue bedroom, and counting the ceiling tiles in our 50's era home, to my first real home on the hill, with my Great Grandparents. In every sense of the word, "Home", this house was that. I shared the top floor of this home with my mother, and for a short time my father before they divorced and he moved back to his home country. Every cliche was experienced here: I baked with Grandma, and helped clean the smelt my grandfather fished for. I practiced my violin in my room- the one at the top of the stairs, my mother listening not too far off, making sure I was working on my recital song, Humoresque. This home, it was happy.
With Him, there was always a struggle of Home. How to decorate it, how to treat it- and more than anything, how you should feel in it.
I'm sure if you studied my spending habits in the last four years, it was all centered around home furnishings. I added to the vintage book collection almost weekly, and the amount of pillows on the couch was the subject of many jokes. But to me, this was my effort- my grasping- at making 140th Street home. Some people are emotional eaters. I am an emotional spender, and decorator- a frustrated artist that has been searching for the perfect expression to put on the canvas.
My home now, a one room studio in a neighborhood much hipper and chic than me, has suited me well. I remember the night I walked in. I was early, and that worked to my advantage as apartment number 9, with new bamboo floors and pedestal sink was coveted by a long list of other home-searching hopefuls. I cried as I signed the lease, and Marco, the owner and intuitive landlord asked "Was this your decision or His?"
I moved in, and with sparse walls and high ceilings, this place felt immeasurably larger than it does today. I played my vinyl Carole King albums on the turntable for the first month straight. If there was ever a person who understood this pain, it would be her. At night, Carole and I would cook a meal of rice and a rotating flavor of Trader Joe's curry. Inviting someone over was out of the question. "Here, sit on my bed and eat dinner!" So, in this year, I ate more than a thousand meals by myself. Drinking the calm of being alone, and feasting on the ability to chose how I live and what my home feels like. This was a meal I liked.
I watched a beautiful movie- a movie I will sweetly remember always as mine. And I had a powerful response to a character, my kindred spirit, who put this feeling in words:
"Sitting there, alone..., far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I'd never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was something I'd forgotten or something I've been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive."
My sadness which once felt inconsolable and eternal, has been buffered to create this feeling I can only explain as being "alive". I have traveled much further than I ever thought possible- and yes, I am nearly home.
I am returning to my first home. To the Great Grandmother I learned to bake with. I am now her caretaker and companion. Being nearly 100 years with all the ailments that brings, I have determined it the time for me to go back home now.
I feel proud I can do this for her. Whether this is for five months or five years, it will be a sacrifice- for both her and me. But sacrifice is one of the flavors of home, so I am not so worried.
Putting aside the boxes with all my seasonal decorations, I plan to surprise her with white festive lights and red-bowed wreaths. I feel repentant for not doing this last year, or the 18 years before that she's been alone. That maybe my nativity set will be more redeeming than ever. Even if it's only for me, perhaps.
Home, if you can hear me, I am coming.
With Carole, silver serving set, and many desires- most of all, to be alive- yes alive.
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