March to the Beat in the USA

It really is a jungle. Crazy, exotic, and absolutely full of people. During my first couple of weeks, all I could do was focus on their feet. Focus on their movements. There were just so many of them—there still are. I am constantly surrounded. How can there be this many? I can never walk more than a few steps without brushing up against one. Watch their feet, watch their shoulders, watch out. I’m a short person, and everything here is tall. Now I am shorter.

 

I am always smelling something. Perfume, garbage, spices, paint, car fumes, burning rubber, sweat. Just the same, I am always hearing something. Car horns, children’s laughter, muffled voices from the apartment below, beeping trucks, hissing steam. There is always movement, which is chaotic and rushed, yet has a certain rhythm. Everyone learns to move to this pace.

 

My first day here, I was staying at a friend of a friend’s place and receiving the key from a cousin, who is also a cop. He proceeded to outline all of the horrors of my new home.

 

“If you act like a victim, you are a victim.”

 

“Always lock the door, even if you’re out for a moment. And always look through the peep hole first.”

 

“Leave one light on in the darkest corner of the room.”

 

“Do you have pepper spray? I’ll get you some.”

 

“Don’t yell rape or help, no one will come. Yell fire.”

 

Suddenly my gut was sinking in on itself, my breathing was coming fast and I feared a panic attack was coming on. I hadn’t had a panic attack in 3 years, and this man was about to ruin all that work. He meant well, and he certainly gave me some good advice, but suddenly the city had a sinister glow. The bright lights that block out my precious stars—the ones I can see so clearly back home in the woods—became spotlights, pointing me out to the predators lurking in this jungle. I was alone, since no one would come help me if I called for it. I thought college was scary. I thought job interviews were scary. But this was different. I was out of college, at a turning point to start shaping my life or be left behind. I had one month to find a place of my own, and I was starting a new job. I had been to the city only twice before, both brief trips. How was I going to survive?

 

I adjusted. Searching for housing proved to be a hunt worthy of an Olympic medal. Settling into my job was made easier by the welcoming coworkers I work with. With only 4 days left to find somewhere to live, I signed a lease with a girl I went to college with (we’ll take the silver). I have survived, though I still think there are too many people.

 

I’ve never been very good with change. I don’t like when something is working well and suddenly someone decides to change it…what if they make it worse? When I was young, my parents announced we were going to be moving, and I was appalled. I couldn’t think about leaving the house I had grown up in. When I was entering college, the panic attacks started. But I’ve always adjusted, mostly with the love and support of friends and family. Grudgingly, I have changed, and the change has in fact almost always been for the better. This last challenge, this city, tested me differently than the others. It really was all up to me. I had to make the job work, or I was fired. I had to find somewhere to live, or I was homeless. I had to learn to make the decisions. I had to be brave enough to face this city, to adjust to it. I’m still not used to the garbage truck that wakes me up every Saturday morning at 6:30 am, but I am used to the sirens. I’ve grown used to the cacophony of smells that roam through the air, but every now and then am surprised by a new one.

 

I’ve learned to flow with the pattern, to march to the rhythm. This city dared me to face it down, taunted me. I had to be brave; I had to stand up to it. It was like a big bully waiting to tear me down. I knew if I was going to survive, I had to face my fears. I looked right into the bully’s eyes and said,

 

“Bring it on New York City. I’m ready for you.”

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