All my hip-hop heads have a conditioned
response to the title. But this isn’t a
post about Jay-Z.
I went home to New York City for the second
time in the last three months. I love
being there. Every time I am, I
rediscover parts of my city (and ostensibly, parts of myself) that I simply
adore. The subway, Times Square, Union
Square, Downtown Brooklyn, all of these places and many more have played
essential parts in my development.
I go back to New York to reconnect with parts
of myself that don’t go over as well in smaller venues. Qualities like brashness and a high-strung
nature don’t necessarily play so well in other cities, and it’s a shame.
It’s a common saying that you can’t go home
again. There’s a degree of truth to that, I guess, if you’re referring to home
as a building of apartment. Eventually,
the people that made your house a home leave, your neighborhood changes, and
that part of your life fades into memory.
But home is more than just a place, home is a feeling, a sense of being in
the right place. And every time I come
home I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s for a weekend.
Now, if only I could afford it for longer than
that.
In the meantime, I reintroduce myself to the
city, and by proxy, myself. I can see all the ways I have changed for being
away, good and bad. I may not be as
impatient or excitable anymore, I may not have as much direct access to
stimulus anymore, but I can appreciate clean air now, and even quiet to a
degree (in small amounts).
Unfortunately for the people in the much
smaller town in which I currently reside, though, I now have a six-month supply
of being a New Yorker in my system.
Please forgive me.
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