New York Story
I am overwhelmed before we even get off the airplane. We had just flown over the city, a sudden outcrop of close-together buildings, and I am almost relieved when the plane seems to have passed over it, delaying my arrival into New York for at least another minute. In my head, I am a fan of New York City. I really shouldn’t be afraid. And yet, I am so nervous, near tears as we start filing off the plane and I struggle to gather all of my things, already feeling as though I am moving at a lagging pace. Yes, in theory, I am a fan of New York, but in reality, I am a bundle of raw nerves, perhaps too good at matching the city’s frantic energy. And so, as my father and I grab our luggage and hail a cab, officially kicking off another college visit, I already know that this probably won’t be the place I end up for my next four years.
In Houston, my racing mind is granted a little bit more room; I have wide-set streets and large expanses of residential blocks where my anxiety can expand and retreat. I don’t feel crowded by my own thoughts. In Houston, nearly everyone drives a car, making even the most public spaces private. There isn’t the sense that I’m in anyone’s way or that I’m a burden. In New York, this is not the case. It’s not so much that I’m uncomfortable being so close to so many people. It’s not that I’m scared of strangers; it’s more-so that I’m scared of myself — scared I’ll waste other people’s time or embarrass myself by being too timid or too nice. The self-reservation I am allowed to feel within my own car at home doesn’t have a place in New York; here, you are your own vehicle, and shy, nervous vehicles don’t seem to get very far. In Houston, there is no expectation as to how the day will unfold. It is home, and I am comfortable letting it exist as just that. With New York, I feel as though there is a pressure for a story to unfold; there is a pressure to join the ranks of the myriad characters that have already walked its streets. There is a pressure for something larger than life to happen. I believe that New York holds a great deal of magic, but maybe that’s part of its downfall for me — that I’m not sure I’ll know how to handle it, or that I’ll fall into the large flocks of tourists who look for it in the wrong places. I’ve only gone to New York twice in more recent years and both times, to spend time in that city has been to spend time calming myself down.
One of my greatest accomplishments was not having a panic attack when I got lost on the subway. (Or maybe getting lost should be my greatest accomplishment, seeing as how I was given very simple instructions on how to get back.) I just kept telling myself that no one could know how scared I was to be there, and once I believed that they believed that I was ok, I started to believe it too. For me, visiting New York seems to be a balancing act of matching other people’s confidence; I know I’ll never be casual enough to seem like a native New Yorker, but I also don’t want to come off as too eager, as a dumb, shiny kid who believes she can take the city by storm. My goal for visiting New York is just to exist invisibly, allowing myself to soak in the city at my own pace, not letting it return my gaze long enough to figure out that I probably don’t belong. It’s not a very ambitious goal, but it’s one that feels safe and comfortable. I want to get to the point where I’m visiting New York, and not Visiting New York!
On my last trip there, I stayed with family. My aunt and I walked all the way down Riverside, and she pointed out the places where my cousin Luke would play when he was a baby. That one walk strangely made me feel so much better. Hearing that someone has memories here — real-life memories, and not glossy memories you can buy for $10 at a Visitor’s Center — made me realize that to many, New York isn’t some intimidatingly mythical place to visit. It’s just another home, and maybe it’s ok for me to treat it as one.