We All Have a Second Home
Mine is New York
This is a true story albeit unbelievable.
My husband and I are in New York. He makes fun of my brisk walk and fast-talking ways once we hit the city. I respond by saying what I have said many times before.
“My uncles tell me to move like I’m from here,” I say.
My family of NYC first responders preaching safety to their Virginia niece.
Most of the time it involves the usual encounter. I quickly interact with a cabbie for fear of being overcharged. I throw in a bit of my best Brooklyn ease. I keep my purse in front of me with a hand firmly on it. I walk faster than my middle school track runs.
But one night something unusual happens.
My husband and I search for a trendy spot. We find one and I follow my family’s instructions. I boldly pace towards the entrance speaking rapidly. I give the massive bouncer no time to talk.
Once inside, my husband and I comment on how tall everyone is. Weird. And how monochromatic they are. Weird. Every single individual is dressed in black. Weird. And they’re all standing. Weird. It is a restaurant after all.
But hey, it’s NYC.
Anything goes.
Until we ask for a table. We should’ve just stood there. They would’ve been none the wiser. We were one of them. Seems my height and our colorful garb aren’t exposing us. But looking for a seat is. Alarm bells sound. As well as a bit of shock.
For the restauranteurs and us.
We are at Calvin Klein’s private party. I guess model height and all-black attire make sense. A whole lot of sense. They’ve spotted the intruders but nonetheless, they are surprisingly polite.
Remind me to let Calvin Klein know he runs a class act.
That is, for tossing nobodies out of somebody’s event. They quickly show us the door. I don’t have the appropriate time to appreciate my temporary good fortune. I mean, exciting, right?!
“What were you thinking?” I say to the beefy bouncer who let us in.
“You were walking and talking like you belonged here,” he replies.
Well, there you go. My grandfather, uncles, and cousins had not wasted their profession on me. I am a rule follower. A listener. Even my husband was no longer a naysayer.
I could be a New Yorker.
The big bouncer guy was right. I did belong there. I am a southern Nu Yawker—a nod to my Brooklyn-born parents and my upbringing. When I step into New York City it’s visceral.
Emotion washes over me.
Years abandon me. I am a little girl. I am from here. My family says so. Memories grab my hand. The kind that is familiar with love. That says I am a part of you and you are a part of me.
I see my grandparents.
I see their apartment.
I inhale the smell of their building as I step onto the elevator. I sit at my aunt and uncle’s table in Marine Park and revel in stories past. I travel to Long Island where my Aunt belts out Irish tunes and my mother joins in. It’s on to my other aunt and uncle’s house where he stirs a huge pot of food. And later, like a kid jumps in the pool beside us.
New York is familiar in the deepest sense. In history that is particular to me. With the sounds of beeping cars, Irish pubs, and the rush of excitement. In an assertion that anything can happen. In the scurry of Coney Island, the Belt Parkway, and Jones Beach.
In the images of the uniformed individuals who guard it. The very people who taught me to embrace and revere it. Who merged a southerner with the northerners because we belong to one another.
In the years following my Calvin Klein thrill, I travel with my cousin.
He navigates the streets like the Nu Yawker he is.
“Stop the car,” I say.
I jump out and race toward a street vendor.
“Can you believe these ‘I love New York' t-shirts are so cheap?!” I ask enthusiastically.
He laughs musing I might be their only market. An actual New Yorker may not find their value. They might race by them in their fast-talking and walking ways.
But I understand their worth.
My family taught me I was from here.