Actually, when I get anyone who replies back, I cling to the strands of conversation and don't want to let go, which is how I make friends with bodega cashiers. Actually, I feel like these people are in the same boat. When I actually give a genuine response and ask them how they are, we're off! It's funny to watch their faces crack through the lines they've been saying all day and just process my answer, and you get to see them smile genuinely and reply thoughtfully back.
It's the Southern in me, I guess. I never thought that the South had that much of a difference--I figured that it was all hype--but there is a sense of blase here. Well, it actually seems like a faux-blase really, because people seem cheered by genuine friendliness sometimes.
Or maybe, I'm projecting?
That's entirely possible.
But today, I realized that I've become hardened when there was breakdancing on the subway: these two guys were doing really amazing things. They did flips and climbed the metal railing above our heads. They pulled themselves up the poles and carried themselves off the floor. And they even used each other to make a human wheel to go all the way down the subway car much to the amazement of the subway crowd!
And I did nothing. I sat wedged in my seat, reading a book, hardly looking up until I heard these gasps and woo's from the guy across from me. And even then, I was slightly annoyed because I was trying to read a book. Granted, it was Ian McEwan, who is a genius, but still! I plum ignored these two guys who were expressing themselves, who were putting themselves up for this public inspection in a really impressive spectacle. As a wannabe artist in training, I should be more understanding.
They finished when I closed my book. I sat there and thought about how I wanted to write for a living and how even an ounce of encouragement would mean the world to me. I thought about how what if I tried to write a short story and read it out to a subway car and how the deliberate inattentiveness from one subway goer could kill my confidence.
Granted, my confidence is easily shot as seen by two little girls at a coffee house, but what if!
I felt really bad for being so rude to those two break dancers. Since when did the magic of breakdancing stop putting an excited smile to my face? Since when did I get annoyed by this stuff?
Since you moved to New York my hardened New York side told me, which made me panic because I was talking to myself in my head using a weird voice.
"You're such a baby," Ella, a Russian girl who moved here three years ago, said to me at a party. I was explaining to her about my subway exploits when I saw breakdancing the first time, and she was laughing at my optimism, slapping my arm lightly with her perfectly well-manicured nails. "You'll think that for a while. It's impressive, but then it gets to that point where you wonder why they don't get a real job," she explained with her slight accent.
I thought about this when I left the station, climbing down the crowded stairs. Maybe they want to dance for a living. Maybe they have a real job and this was them expressing themselves, doing what they wanted to actually do.
Maybe they were doing exactly what I was doing: working during the day and playing wannabe artist whenever possible.
Maybe this couple I was walking behind could walk down the stairs a little faster because some of us didn't need to savor every single step.
Oh hardened New York side, there you are.
Maybe they were doing exactly what I was doing: working during the day and playing wannabe artist whenever possible.
Maybe this couple I was walking behind could walk down the stairs a little faster because some of us didn't need to savor every single step.
Oh hardened New York side, there you are.
This photo is what I imagined a hardened New York face would look like if he was Martin Freeman.
Feeling: Awake. Listening: She & Him's Never Wanted Your Love