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.