Rock You Like a Hurricane

Coffee shop in my neighborhood, scroungin' up some bizness before Sandy.

My dad visited. Superstorm Sandy assaulted New York.

Although these two events seem unrelated – save for their chronological overlap – they both have me thinking about New York in relational terms.  That is, when something unfamiliar interacts with the familiar, when the foreign strikes home, I contemplate.

Ever since I returned to the city in August after visiting my parents, I’ve been underwhelmed, though subconsciously so.  The city hasn’t changed, nor has it lost its excitement or luster.  Nor have I gotten bored in daily life.  On the contrary: I began a new job, the “semester” of small groups and daily life started up again. I’m still meeting and befriending new people, growing closer to some, experiencing new events and music and cultures.  But this “daily life” has become integrated into “New York life.” Or, perhaps, “New York life” has become “daily life.”  That  I cannot figure out how best to phrase the sentiment points to the fact that the syntax doesn’t matter: they’re one and the same.

Of course, I’m still new here and will not be considered a New Yorker for many years to come (if ever).  But what the city has lost is the luster of the “new,” the excitement of a thrilling (or terrifying) adventure in my life.  In several ways, this is a blessing: I have multiple communities in which I feel part, I have a job and a daily commute, I have a list of favorite places to recommend to others.  In other ways, this loss is a curse (or, more generously, a disappointment): I’ve already felt somewhat restless, I now have to face the realization that my life here hasn’t turned out exactly how I wanted it to, and I’ve lost my sensitivity to the latent excitement of my environment.  As evidence, I present case study number one: my neglect of this blog, my personal record of my first year in New York. (Hopefully I’ll find the time to write some catch-up, but no promises.)

When my dad visited last week, it was his first visit to the city. Planning our itinerary became less about showing him around the city and more about showing him my life, now enmeshed in this place.  I sought to diversify the experience, to show him touristy New York and personal New York.  We walked around Central Park, but we also walked around my neighborhood.  We greeted the city from the top of the Empire State Building, but we also greeted my friends at a new, local beer hall.  We met with the city as we rode through its underground tunnels and walked its streets, and we fellowshipped with my new-found community.  Of course, his glimpse into my life was fragmented; I don’t normally go to nice Italian restaurants on Friday nights or visit the museum on Sunday mornings (though perhaps I should). But exposing my father – unfamiliar to the city and my daily routine – to the now-familiar aspects of my life was a daunting-yet-intriguing experience, if only for the fact that the juxtaposition exists.

Lower Manhattan from the Staten Island Ferry (Pre-Sandy loss of power)

A foggy day in New York-town from the top of the Empire State Building, looking south. No lines!

Autumn in New York.  Central Park 10/27/2012.

The father conquers New York City.

Dead things at the American Museum of Natural History

When Sandy swept through, locking us indoors for a few days, trapping my dad here for a few extra, stressful days, but largely (and thankfully) ignoring my neighborhood, I was once again confronted by the familiar/unfamiliar divide.  Bare fact: a hurricane in New York is unfamiliar (especially because I was not here for Irene – and its pittance – last year). Being cut off from Manhattan for a week (and for the first time since I’ve lived here) left me with nothing but the everyday aspects of my life: my apartment, my friends gathering, a few runs to the park or the library.  Everything was wholly domestic.  At the same time, Sandy wreaked havoc on parts of the city, shutting down power in lower Manhattan (and at my work) in ways that I couldn’t imagine in my safe little Brooklyn nest.  The closest I got to the destruction was volunteering at the shelter in the Park Slope Armory, where nursing homes from the Rockaways evacuated their patients. And even after a few hours there, I was free to go home to my bed, to take a hot shower and curl up under soft downy comfort(er). I followed the news like most people in the country – via newspaper reports and friends’ Facebook feeds (we don’t have TV).  All of this unfamiliar tragedy was happening around me, but it still felt so distant; it was around the corner, yet I was able to distance myself and lose myself in party games, a run, a book (or four), Netflix, and selfish complaints of boredom.

Beginning of Sandy: we ventured out to get lunch at Nero Doro.

Nero Doro

Mid-Sandy: Making cookies (oatmeal chocolate chip)

Mid-Sandy: Roommate Dinner! (+ Dad)

My dad ended up renting a car and driving home, and I could hear the relief in his voice – not because of leaving New York, necessarily, but because of getting home, getting back to the familiar.  And I have to wonder, as I go back to work, as I recommit to classes at the Y, as the MTA resumes subway service, but as Sandy’s complications still trouble millions, will this city actually ever rest in me as familiar?  Does it already?  Or will it keep throwing surprises – good or bad – and shaking me up? My bet is on the surprises.

I actually relish the swing between familiar and unfamiliar, the forced re-examination of my life here, which I never want to become ordinary.  I want to be gently shaken and encouraged to look around, to be conscious as I walk through daily life, and I want "daily life" to be challenged - and I want to constantly challenge it.  

I just hope that whatever it is that makes me conscious the next time around can be a little gentler to the city than Sandy. 

Post-Sandy: People blatantly disregarding the "Park Closed" sign at Prospect Park

Post-Sandy: Have a seat amidst the fall foliage at Fort Greene Park

Singin' and Dancin' in the New York Rain

Rain, rain, go away. You’re much needed in this national drought, if only to offer brief respite from the incredible heat.  But you make pedestrian transit nearly impossible—or, at the very least, incredibly frustrating.

A New York pedestrian with an umbrella actually develops quicker reflexes, ducking through and around other pedestrians, umbrellas, awnings, and food carts—Frogger style. To find the minute opening between other umbrellas and their slow-moving owners is an involved undertaking, and weaving through the sidewalks can actually become a delicate dance of graceful(less) sliding, jumping, and quick-stepping.  This is a dance with a prop, of course, which the dancer must learn to collapse-and-reopen effortlessly and quickly to skirt through small gaps in the pedestrian wall and under/around scaffolding.  With this umbrella, the dancer must also institute a constant up-down motion, above the heads of the unfortunates without umbrellas (or with height challenges), under the umbrellas of tall pedestrians or those who decide that the gargantuan span of a golf umbrella was a wise choice on the crowded sidewalk.

Of course, if a pedestrian is lucky enough to be caught without an umbrella (such as yours truly during the storm sneak-attack on Wednesday night), the event of walking (such an easy, taken-for-granted prospect on dry days), becomes less of a dance and more of a survival strategy.  First: which subway route to take?  Go one way, and the walk to the station is shorter, but go the longer route, and you get the benefit of more awnings.  Decisions. 

Once the unfortunate, umbrella-deprived pedestrian (let’s call her Leah – for kicks and giggles, of course) decides which path to take (the longer walk with more awnings and fewer train transfers, incidentally), she obviously wants to move more quickly, to walk faster despite the treadless flats she wears, to get to the subway.  This may not limit rain exposure, but it definitely lessens the time spent uncomfortably in the elements.  However, as if people walking slowly in groups two or three (or four?!)-abreast was not already a frustration, they now increase their girth by walking abreast with umbrellas.  The indecency! On top of this, many pedestrians passing by refuse to offer the courtesy of lifting their umbrellas,  resulting in swipes of the umbrella edge across Leah’s shoulder, collisions with her head, and several occasions of increased wetness from the rain streaming off of the umbrella.  Furthermore, the trains seem to run with increasing delays when it rains, even when most of the route (and all of Leah’s) is underground, which is baffling. 

If only Leah had been prepared—with an umbrella, yes—but more importantly, at home, curled up with a good book to listen to the thunder. THEN we can say, “come again another day.” 

Rainy Day family in Bed-Stuy

6 Months of New York Times

 Today marks the six month anniversary of my arrival in New York City.  Before living here was a tangible possibility or even a plan to be actualized, I used to say, “I want to live in a city–a big metropolitan center.  Not forever, but a good two years at least.  Just to do it, just to live that way, just to fully experience an urban life different from anything I’ve ever really known.”

If I’m on that two-year plan of “urban life discovery,” then I’m a quarter of the way through.  To be cliche: it feels like I just got here, like I’m still “fresh off the (non-immigrant, totally white and privileged, therefore highly metaphorical and probably inappropriate) boat.” But at the same time, I’ve been here long enough to get acclimated, to forget to speak the awed  “I live here” thoughts to myself, to understand the city and my neighborhood a little bit.  A very little bit, to be sure, but still.

Plenty has happened since I’ve been here, including making a big life decision that I’m still contemplating and processing, for better or for worse.  Several friends of mine got married, and life has moved forward.

I’m still looking to BE here.  I’m still looking for a career, a foothold into professional life here, and I’ve barely begun to establish a social life....but I suppose I’ve started enough of one to have less and less time to post about my experiences and contemplations.  So for the next few days, I’m going to do a bit of a backlog for all those of you (parents, grandmother, random person who regrets clicking the facebook link) who are interested.

Onward and upward, New York.

I Need Some W(h)ine

I realize that I haven’t been posting lately.  Part of this is due to the fact that I’ve been keeping myself busy (which I know is all the more reason to post.  Alas, alack.) Another part is sheer laziness. 

But perhaps the greatest part is that (I fear) the “glamour” and novelty of the city is beginning to wear off.  My subway trek is habitual and forgettable. On the streets, I neglect to look up, to see the towering skyscrapers or to be impressed by them. I stop being optimistic about the possibilities of the city and start seeing the aspects that frustrate me most.

Thus, I introduce to you the first installment of a new list.

What’s Pissing Me Off in NYC:

1. People who just decide to STOP in the middle of the sidewalk, making you run into them.
2. Tourists. (#1 and #2 are usually synonymous).
3. Especially tourists who feel the need to take pictures of EVERY building.  Times Square looks exactly the same from every angle, people, I promise: a lot of annoying people, a lot of lights.  Take one shot and MOVE ON.
4. Bikers who feel they are exempt from basic traffic laws and streetlight functions.  Just because you’re going green doesn’t mean you have the right to be an idiot.
5. People who walk two abreast going up the stairs when leaving the subway, painstakingly stomping up the stairs as if each foot weighed 300 lbs.  This is especially frustrating when people do this on both sides of the stairwell, thereby disrupting traffic flow going up and down, ignoring the “slow-ass people keep to the right (please)” rule.
6. People who ignore the “let people off before you get on” the elevator or train rule. Seriously, it’s 5 seconds, and whether you wait or not, you will make it into that claustrophobic can, trust me.
7. People who don’t move to the middle of the subway car, then laugh at everyone in the mob by the door because the newcomers couldn’t move into the middle.  Because you’re standing there laughing.
8. People who play their music too loud (when I'm trying to read).  It’s not my fault you’ve caused yourself to go deaf.  Get some better earphones or go see an ENT doctor.
9. People with strollers. Yeah, I said it.  But especially people with strollers on the subway. At rush hour.  COME ON.  (I’ll extend this to bikes as well.  Ride the damn thing, don’t ride with it.)
10. People I pass on the street who are more attractive, more stylish, or are clearly wealthier than me.  So, basically, everyone.

Yep. New Yorker in the making.

(Can you tell it’s Monday?)

Really kitschy, cheesy photo googled to serve my purposes of providing at least some visual content.  You're welcome.

On a related note, while g-chatting with my coworker today (the modern era’s version of the watercooler conversation), our complaints about our management led to a business proposition.

It began with my suggestion that we start a club called (imaginatively) the Bitter Club.  Then I suggested that we drink alcoholic concoctions involving bitters because 1) it’s thematic and 2) every club should involve alcohols of some kind.

Then we latched onto the bar idea.

W(h)ine

• An after-work (or anytime) bar for everyone who wants to complain about bosses, job frustrations, coworkers, family, significant others, New Yorkers, etc.
• (We realize that an argument could be made that this is, justifiably, any and every bar, but that’s how business works, isn’t it?  Create a “new” product out of existing one by simply repackaging what everyone already has, then convincing them that they need the new.)
• No “happy hour.”  The term would contradict the bar’s name, after all.  We will still have a time when we offer drink deals, but instead, we’ll call it “[The] Bitching Hour.”  As my business partner pointed out, “Hey, let’s go out for bitchin’ hour” sounds pretty legit.
• A menu.  Typical bar fare at the moment, maybe some special fare in the future.  Right now, it features items with punny names such as “French Fry Your Boss.”  Eh.  Probably too cutesy/terrible.  We’ll work on that.
• To prevent violation of the “what happens here, stays here” principle, instead of (or perhaps in addition to) a coat check, we will also have a cell phone check, thereby assuring that you come to our bar to bitch about rather than at through the means of drunk dialing/texting.

Business plan to follow.

(Now, I do realize that the ethical claims against an establishment based solely on gossiping are probably astounding and, well, correct.  Chalk the idea up to a case of the Mondays? or the Mean Reds?)



*I've been harboring some of these thoughts for awhile.  On April 27, I accompanied a friend to a strange underground art gallery event in Bed-Stuy.  Literally underground - it was in the basement of a nondescript brownstone where they served Two-Buck Chuck on top of the washer and dryer. We went because her coworker was performing (vocals and guitar), though we may have missed that part.  The reason for the show - the art side of it - was a number of self-portraits from artists in France.  (Incidentally, only about a quarter of these art projects actually made it to the show through the mail; the walls were a bit bare.)  Along with the self-portrait, the artists were asked to answer a few questions, including things such as "What do you think about when you're on the metro?"  For the thronging crowd (i.e. 10 people) in attendance at this event, the organizers had also laid out a notebook with these same questions, which I assumed was a log to show who had come to the event.  So I jokingly filled it out.

Then I learned that they were shipping this back to France for the artists.  Whoops.

What the French received (please excuse the language...not usually my style. Blame it on the 2-Buck Chuck).

How New York and the South are Similar # 1

Recently, I returned to Knoxville, TN to attend the nuptial celebration of some dear friends. After a (semi-intense) reunion with my beloved car (affectionately named Rhett Butler), the first thing I did when I put the car in gear was roll the windows down and stick my hand out of the sunroof, driving up Alcoa Highway with the wind whipping through my fingers – the feeling of comfort and freedom and summer.  Oh, those su-ummer ni-ights.  (Tell me more, tell me more.  Ok, you asked...)

The first thing I encountered upon my morning return to New York City was a torrential downpour.  Naturally, I had no umbrella, so I dragged my suitcase through huge puddles and was quite literally dripping wet when I made it up to work.  Thus ensued about five days of gray, dismal city.

But despite these differences (and some obvious distinctions such as climate, cost of living, etc.), New York City and the South are remarkably similar in some key ways. 

You doubt, you scoff.  Let me explain:

1. Each has a theme song.  Multiple, actually.

New York:

When you mention New York City in any conversation, you will receive a singing answer roughly 70% of the time.  It either starts with a vocal interpretation:

DA-DA-da-da-da, DA-DA-da-da-da

And/or one line

Start spreading the news…

Old Blue Eyes, of course. (Though I do also really love the new, quieter Carey Mulligan cover.) Guy, the desk guard at our previous office building, sang it to me on multiple occasions as he printed my building pass; even New Yorkers sometimes get a hankering for such a famous tune.

The more modern equivalent of a New York theme song has to be the Alicia Keys and Jay-Z (the self-proclaimed “New Sinatra”) collaboration “Empire State of Mind”:

New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of

There’s nothin’ you can’t do

Now you’re in New York

These streets will make you feel brand new

Big lights will inspire you

Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York

Frank

Jay-Z

 

 The South:

 An untold number of country songs laud the south, “redneck” men and women, and general “good ol’ country life” that leave the rest of the nation convinced that Southerners really don’t wear shoes (except for the occasional cowboy boot) and deem the tractor an appropriate and preferred method of transportation to and from all events.

I‘ll stand barefooted in my own front yard with a baby on my hip. I’m a redneck woman, I ain’t no high class broad.  I’m just a product of my raising and I say hey y’all and yee-haw. (Gretchen Wilson)

With a little bit of chicken fried.  Cold beer on a Friday night.  Pair of jeans that fit just right, and the radio on. (Zac Brown Band)

You can have a lot of fun in a New York minute

But there’s some things you can’t do inside those city limits

Ain’t no closing time, ain’t no cover charge

Just country boys and girls gettin’ down on the farm. (Tim McGraw)

But then there’s "Dixie," the song most associated with and adopted by the South (unfortunately so)**:

I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

In Dixie Land where I was born in, early on a frosty mornin’,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

Then I wish I was in Dixie, hooray! Hooray!

In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand to live and die in Dixie,

Away, away, away down South in Dixie,

Away, away, away down South in Dixie.

Theme Song Philosophizing

The problem with both New York’s and the South’s theme songs is that they are poor representations of each location.  The “New York, New York” theme has become the hopeful picture of individual success and dream-fulfillment, the embodiment of New York idealism.  Jay-Z even acknowledges the false hope, probably because he’s “out that Bed-Stuy, home of that boy Biggie” and recognizes that New York, like most other places in America, hails the privileged few that actually do make it, the millionaires who can afford real estate in Manhattan and afford the life of indulgence that this city demands:

City, it’s a pity, half of y’all won’t make it.

I know a great many people in the South, even ones whom I have referred to as “good country folk” or “rednecks,” and they are multi-dimensional and own several pairs of shoes.  Regarding the use of y’all – well, I have long made the case that it’s a fine, gender-inclusive term that the entire English-speaking world should employ, seeing how they’ve done away with the plural “you.”  Y’all get on that now, ya hear?

But "Dixie"…now, it might be a theme song, but I acknowledge it’s not one to be proud of (though many Southerners ignorantly are, I’ll admit). Born out of the minstrelsy tradition, adopted by the CSA, the tune is far too racially charged to be acknowledged anywhere. When my family first moved to the South from the Midwest in 1997, my parents attended my dad’s company Christmas party.  When the “Star Spangled Banner” played, few people stood or showed the respect it’s given at all major sporting events.  But when “Dixie” played…you would have thought that the South had actually won “The War of Northern Aggression.”  When my parents didn’t stand, others interpreted this as a clear display of their own unwelcome northern aggression.

When I attended Ole Miss in 2004, the (relatively new) tradition of The Pride of the South band playing “From Dixie with Love” ended every football game.  This song was a mash-up of “Dixie” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” except at the end, when the line should be “His truth is marching on,” everyone joined in, raising their blue and red poms (which had only replaced Confederate flags in 1997) and chanting “the South will rise again,” a slogan identified with the Ku Klux Klan. Only in 2010 did Colonel Reb officially get replaced by the Ole Miss Black Bear.

Yeah, it’s not a college without serious racial issues and a sordid past.  But I went to Ole Miss, and most people I associated with wanted nothing to do with any of the school’s racist traditions.  I knew people who started racial reconciliation groups.  As odd as it sounds, I knew plenty of Southern hipsters who loved Oxford, not Ole Miss, who created music and embraced the vibrant literary tradition of Faulkner’s town.  The South as a whole isn’t necessarily a place dominated by country life (there are cities in the South, people – and some great ones, too) or racist tradition, though I won’t deny that those exist.  But the South has diversity, too; there are different kinds of South (Old South, New South, Deep South, Appalachia, Delta, Coast, etc.) just as there are different neighborhoods and boroughs in New York.

A recap. How New York and the South are similar #1: misrepresentative theme songs.

Next installment: stereotyped renditions of the silver screen.  Stay tuned.


*Click on any of the links for YouTube videos and performances of the songs discussed.
**Christian McWhirter contributed a piece to the New York Times op-ed about "The Birth of 'Dixie'".  Check it out.