Tale of 2 Cities
New York City is one of those cities that everyone has lived in. I am paraphrasing here from Ling Ma’s book, Severance. That line struck a chord with me as I have always said that I am from New York despite the fact that I had never lived here until my recent post-college move. I always had a complicated relationship with this city because my father and half my family are from here but where you are from doesn’t translate as easily as the color of your skin can (sometimes). People who look mixed, more seamlessly list their various races. In my case, I am half White and half Asian. But can I be from New York and Jakarta? I spent my entire childhood in Jakarta but would visit New York during the summers to see family. I have certainly not spent equal time in both places, yet each is home to me in my eyes. I think that is why Ling Ma’s words tugged at my heartstrings because I knew exactly what she was getting at. New York is a city that is so often romanticized within our collective imagination that you really feel that you have been here without ever having physically been here. You may have never been here yet you can certainly see the bright lights on broadway. You may have never been to a baseball game here but you know what a pretzel and hotdog smell like at Yankee Stadium (Sorry fellow Mets fans. No one thinks of the Mets when they think of New York, unfortunately). You might have eaten plenty of bagels and lox throughout your life but you know deep down there is nothing like the ones here in the city and that against all reasonable assumptions, you do suspect that this is the case because there really is something special in the water here. Once, during a dinner in Los Angeles, the restaurant owner boasted that his pizza was so good because he actually imported the water from New York. I never verified that fact and honestly, I didn’t need to. His words were as real as the dreams of Central Park I conjured up as a kid when I wondered what it would be like to live in the other place that I am from.
I read often about the experience that Asian-Americans have of returning to their “native” countries. Such a narrative is compelling to many because in some way we are all returning to someplace where we know we are from but are unsure if we belong. Identity is complex and like a die, has more than one side. It is easy to fit into one story. It’s comforting. But it isn’t real. It’s like a daydream. Falling deep into one side of our identity can seem so idealistic on the surface but it will leave you lacking. Whether it is a matter of race, politics, orientation, or some other method of understanding each other by which we compartmentalize our identities, we all know that deep down it is much more complex. It’s easy to preach this idea but like many other simply understood ideas, it is hard to practice. Coming to New York has been more than just about moving to a new city, getting a new job, finding new friends, and creating a new life, it has been also about moving closer to myself. The New York that I have always known my whole life has finally become my home but it is still not somewhere where I feel at home. As the sight of the bright lights of my idealized city began to fade, a new type of weight encroached my consciousness. A feeling that says that maybe I am not enough to be a New Yorker. Maybe I was never really from New York, to begin with. I begin to crawl back into my box of a singular and rigid identity and sever my connection with a part of who I thought I was.
However, this began to change recently. In light of the pandemic and social distancing, the city that never sleeps is starting to sleep in a little. Tonight on what would have been a brisk yet lively spring night, the streets are empty. I sit on the fire escape as I feel the cool breeze pass through my unruly hair that is in dire need of a trip to the barber. As I close my eyes to take full account of the moment, I begin to hear a car trudge down the road. The road on my block is an old cobblestone one and as the wheels of the vehicle bump constantly against each crease and crack, they create a sound that can be likened to the crackling flames of a campfire. The streets are filled with a silence that is occasionally interrupted by the hum of the birds or by the voices of two old ladies down the road who are chatting six feet apart. At first glance, this New York feels different from the one I have always dreamt of yet it is still the same city that lives in our imagination. This is just a different side of the city. And at that moment, I understood. This city shines bright not because of its lights but because of the people that are here. This city is a reflection of its citizens. Despite the quiet streets, the city is shining brighter than ever because it is exhibiting the strength of space and silence that is shared by all its people trying to keep each other safe. The city doesn’t make you. You make the city. Your identity doesn’t define you. You define it.
