For the love of NYC

rekindling an old flame

This week, I asked someone how they liked living in New York. They responded that they find New York gross, gritty, and uncouth and that finding a community and friends takes too much time. It’s true, New York is a hard place to be. It is gross in so, so many ways. Thinking here of the vague smell of sewer that wafted into my nose as I sat outside eating dinner with a girlfriend a few weeks ago. And then, a few days later, walking with another friend in Fort Greene Park, witnessing not one but two people openly wanking in public. Charming.

But then, on the subway this morning, a woman on the other side of the bench spilled her coffee so that it rolled all the way to where I was sitting. I promptly stood up before the brown milky bean water hit me. She searched for tissues in her bag, and the woman in the opposite seat handed me the last of her Wet Wipes to clean up the mess. We did it together, the train moving back and forth in space — both our legs wide to steady ourselves. The interaction was so mundane but reminded me of the generosity of spirit that can burst through here sometimes.

I looked up the definition of uncouth:

1. (of a person or their appearance or behavior) lacking good manners, refinement, or grace.

   "he is unwashed, uncouth, and drunk most of the time"

2. (especially of art or language) lacking sophistication or delicacy.

   "uncouth sketches of peasants"

To be sure, if NYC were a person, that person would probably be unwashed and drunk most of the time. New York doesn’t have good manners, but the heart is there — its bloody, beating heart pulsates endlessly. It’s barely refined, though you can find refinement if you seek it out. It lacks clean streets, has a subway system that in the summertime feels like Dante’s vestibule of hell, and, well, graceful? More like a bull in a china shop, a loud, annoying, confrontational bull.

Finding a community is hard, and I’ve found that to be one of the most difficult parts of returning to this city of my birth — where I so often feel like I don’t belong here. But then, this morning, I walked into a workout class, and the receptionist always says my name as if she knows me — which she does. I noticed some familiar faces. I thought more about the community aspect. Maybe it just looks a little different here.

I used to really love this city. Growing up in London and returning for summer holidays and half-term was always the most exciting thing: I wanted the pounding heartbeat, the sleeplessness, the danger and excitement of the city. There was so much danger to get into here: right at my fingertips. Now, it feels more dangerous than it ever did when I was a kid, and that danger is no longer interesting to me. Now that my frontal lobe has developed, the danger scares me, as it always should have. And somewhere along the way, I lost my love for New York, and it’s yet to return.

But then, I look up if Little Simz is playing anytime soon, and turns out she’s here in October. And Robert Glasper is doing his annual October residency with bae Yasiin Bey. And the opportunities for art, culture, music, and life are endless (though tragically, my bank account is not).

I looked up the definition of gritty:

1. containing or covered with grit. [OK, true, if you come into my house with your shoes on you will not be coming into my house with your shoes on]

2. showing courage and resolve.

New York is the definition of courage and resolve. I’ve never known a bigger bunch of resolute motherfuckers than New Yorkers. I’d like to think that’s what this city has given me: gigantic doses of courage and resolve.

I remember that block party on my street a few weeks ago. The music was actually good, the people were open and friendly, and little kids bumped into grandparents. People take care of each other here. The Jamaican guy who sells weed on my corner asking me: “Want some weed?”

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“You drink?”

“Not really.”

“Then how do you have fun girl?”

Well, I write my little newsletter, for one.

I’ve decided that I’ve got to rediscover the love I once felt for this place. It has to be here somewhere, if I let it be here. It has to be in the daily interactions, big and small. It has to be here in the food, the people, the music, the seasons, the vertiginous buildings, the many, many community gardens dotted around the city — the relentless life to be lived here. The magic that I once felt when I stepped onto the street in high summer, the heat hitting my face and the night full of possibility - it’s got to be here, still. If I pay enough attention, there’s magic happening the entire time. Like the spilled coffee, the receptionist who knows my name, and the band playing on my corner every Sunday. Like most things, we must continuously redirect our gaze toward the good, even when the bad feels overwhelming. If I keep on: but, then - remembering, maybe the love will grow and eventually return. I’ll keep you posted.

With love,

Nora x

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