| Race Length | Finishing Time | Average Pace | Overall Place | Gender Place | Age Group Place (F25-29) |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 5 miles | 38:01 | 7:36/mile | 260/1771 | ?/923 | 18/202 |
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Now, I like to think of myself as a generous person. Whether or not this is actually true, I am at least practical enough to agree that it makes more sense to allow someone to stay in a fully furnished bedroom that used to be mine as a child than to keep it locked tight and gathering dust. Therefore, when my cousin K___ needed a place to live and my parents offered her my room, I agreed that this living arrangement was a good idea.
However, when I arrived home the weekend of my sister’s graduation, this “good idea” suddenly felt like a personal affront. I was forever going upstairs and heading straight into my old bedroom on autopilot, only to see an array of unfamiliar belongings strewn about the room. Not only that, but my formerly meticulously organized possessions and decorations were now scattered haphazardly about, buried beneath a pile of knickknacks or pushed aside to make way for an assortment of my cousin’s pictures, hair ties, and lotion bottles. I opened the dresser drawers (ostensibly looking for makeshift pajamas) and found myself facing a collection of clothes that were not at all mine.
While I wholeheartedly acknowledge that giving someone else my old bedroom when I am obviously no longer living there is, in fact, the best possible arrangement, I cannot say that seeing my room completely covered in someone else’s stuff didn’t make me feel somewhat replaced. I felt as though my parents had found a new daughter to live in my old space. Without my childhood sanctuary intact, I finally felt like a visitor in my childhood home. My neat, orderly, sunny yellow bedroom was no longer “mine”, and it probably never will be again.
Looking at the situation objectively, this is clearly a good and necessary thing—I need to be out on my own, earning and developing my own space in the world. Yet as I confronted this reality head-on in the span of one short weekend, I realized that I have not yet completely moved out of my parents’ house, at least mentally. I have not yet defined “home” for my adult self.
A New Yorker would have actively ignored you...and his retarded friend. Then again, in New York you wouldn’t be buying tea at a gas station, and you would have been getting on line to pay for it. Nevertheless, whether you’re on the PA turnpike or in a NYC coffee shop, you'll still let your dad pay for the tea—but only if he offers, of course.
It started with the Allison Shuffle. This is a move--a dance, in fact--which I used to perform back when I was very young, when I got extremely upset. By extremely upset, I mean on-the-brink-of-throwing-a-tantrum upset: usually standing in the doorway of my parents' den, demanding something I couldn't have or whining about some sort of mandatory duty that they were making me do. I'd start stamping my feet as my pitch raised, since they inevitably would be very mild-mannered about the whole thing, which of course felt like they were ignoring me and was not achieving what I wanted. Then, my dad would, in his snarkiest voice, say, "There goes the Allison Shuffle," and off went my legs, in all directions, uncontrollably stamping and shuffling and flailing to beat the band.
This story, of course, was relayed to my guest, R___, within the first hour of his arrival at my hometown residence. I suppose my family wanted to hit him with the most embarrassing possible story first, since the next few were really just hyperbolic illustrations of character traits R___ already believed me to possess.
For instance: one day, I arrived home from school and, in a huge huff, slammed a test down on the table. My dad, who was sitting at the table, looked at the test. Seeing that it had a 92% scribbled at the top, he asked me what was wrong. In complete dismay, I answered, "It's not 100." My dad really relished telling R___ that story.
Meanwhile, a story my sister reveled in telling was that of my coming home, climbing to the top of our stairs, and shouting "F***!" at the top of my lungs. Clearly I had assumed no one was home, and I was very frustrated at something a certain love interest of mine had said/not said or done/not done at the time. I rarely expressed my frustration at this "certain someone," and so, thinking that I had the house all to myself, I had decided to "let loose." Apparently, my sister found this very amusing and, moreover, worthy of sharing with R___, who also found it quite amusing.
Luckily, apart from those rather embarrassing stories, I emerged otherwise unscathed. And what's more, I intend to be the "guest" this summer and dig into R___'s family archive of embarrassing stories....
"I think you like making things hard on yourself. NYC just isn't cutting it anymore, even though it was a step up from running and swimming and working at Hillside (the campus coffee shop) and writing a memoir thesis senior year. NYC + half + full marathons with volleyball, a full-time job, social life, and a triathlon in between just isn't cutting it for you these days. The next logical step is to go to China and teach English--while training for an Ironman, of course."
At first, I argued with him. Isn't this just a way of of "moving on?" And isn't he trying to "move on," as well? He's been working a lab job in Boston as long as I've been in NYC, and now he is considering moving out to the West Coast to try teaching. However, the more I consider his argument, the more validity it seems to hold. "Making things harder" (or, in more positive-sounding terms, "finding the next challenge") looks as though it may be a reoccurring pattern in my life.
I would say it started for obvious reasons: I was (am?) a competitive and curious child. I wanted to do more--and be the best!--all the time. And this was without having an older sibling to emulate! My parents helped me to join activities that interested me and were socially appealing--tap/ballet classes, swimming lessons, flute and piano lessons, a community soccer team--but always with the qualifier that I had to stick with them throughout the duration of the class/season. Then, if I didn't like the activity anymore, I could quit. There was a reverse rule, too: for every activity I joined, I had to give another one up. This rule forced me to quit soccer in lieu of basketball, when I was "recruited" in fourth grade, and it kept me off of the club swimming team. (Because my mother insisted that if I joined WHAT--Woodland Hills Aquatic Team--she would make me quit every other one of my activities. Which of course I couldn't do.)
But notice: only the latter rule--concerning having to quit one activity to take up another--was ever exercised; the former--that I had to finish the class/season before quitting an activity--never proved to be a problem. This was because I didn't want to quit anything! If I didn't like something, that probably meant I was bad at it, and that just meant I needed to work harder! The only activity I can remember quitting was Brownies; just when I had graduated to Girl Scouts, I left the troop. My reasons were that it was boring, and I had no friends there. This was clearly an activity that needed to be cut to make way for bigger and better challenges!
By the time I reached middle school, I was taking piano lessons in addition to flute lessons. I was still tap-dancing. I was working a one-day-a-week paper route (a job I had taken when I was 9 years old, with the help and encouragement of my father). And in the summers, I swam on the community swim team. Not bad for a kid who accepted nothing less than straight A's and checked out the 20-book-maximum on her library card at every visit.
Junior high school got busier, because while I continued to participate in all of my aforementioned activities, I was not entering public school and encountering activities that hadn't been available before. I was now playing three instruments: flute, piano, and alto sax (which I learned in order to be in the junior high jazz band). Obviously, having just learned alto sax, I could not be The Best at that instrument, but maintaining my first chair flautist position was very important to me. Therefore, although I was no longer taking any flute lessons, I still had to practice from time to time, because we had these annoying things called "challenges." What would happen, is that a lower "chair" would challenge your superior skill. Then, both you and the challenger would hide behind the stage and play a passage of music chosen by the director, and then the band would vote on which anonymous musician they thought played it better. Sometimes, the band voted for the worse player, merely because they could tell who it was and they liked that person better. But to my credit, I was never dethroned!
Besides jazz band, other new "public school" activities included the G.A.T.E. (Gifted and Talented Education) Program, which sometimes required staying after school for competitions or projects; the National Honor Society and its randomly organized volunteering activities; and less regimented, fun things, like school dances!
Then came high school. And here is when it becomes obvious that I cannot help but seek out "more challenges." Because in spite of my parents' warning, I took everything I was already doing and tacked on even huger responsibilities. I was already playing basketball, which I continued to do. Since our team was still rather undeveloped, and because I was one of the tallest girls probably in the whole school (sad but true), I was kept on the varsity squad, which clearly required a massive time commitment. Before basketball season even began, though, I decided to add another sports season to my rotation: volleyball. I had never played this sport before, but I somehow decided that just being in the high school marching band in the fall wasn't enough, and being the flute head section leader in the marching band wasn't enough, either. So I threw volleyball practices into the mix that was already chaotically filled with band camp, football games, newspaper delivery (which I thankfully gave up by my senior year), tap dancing, and piano lessons.
But wait! This is not all. Because after winning the "rising star" contest twice in junior high school and having first a poem and then a short story published in the illustrious high school literary magazine, Graphiti (and it was illustrious--it won awards nearly every year and rivaled some real magazines in both stylistic and print quality), I was determined to hold the most senior position on that staff possible. I ascended the ranks, from Literary Editor, to Senior Editor, to Editor-in-Chief by my senior year. These appointments, of course, also required oodles of time, which I squeezed in by skipping class (not "skipping" skipping, of course--I dutifully checked in with my teachers and made up the work, which then generated more homework that I didn't have time for...) and also working on the magazine during that sliver of time between when the final bell rang to let school out and when I was expected for band/volleyball/basketball practice after school. No rest for the weary!
In the spring things got a little better. By then, the marching band and all of my varsity sports were over. But that was when the church instrument ensemble would gear up for Easter, so they would hold more frequent practices, and I also played flute/piccolo in the high school musical pit orchestra, which required that I camp out at the high school for entire nights during the week and resulted in my oftentimes skipping tap classes and piano lessons. Moreover, in my senior year, I decided that I had had enough of basketball (or maybe it just wasn't challenging enough? Maybe I wanted I had to try something new again?), and I joined the swim team for my winter sports season. I was certainly not the cream of the crop, in terms of swimming capability, but I liked the coach and the training regimen well enough that in the spring, I signed on with the club team (WHAT) and commenced daily 2.5 hour practices which, often, led right into pit musical practice for the rest of the night.
Also, did I mention that there were college and scholarship applications going on during all this time? And that not only did I apply to 7 different schools, but that almost all of them were private and would require ample funding that I felt obligated to secure? Nothing like setting the bar high!
So far, I have neglected to mention my summers, but they yield more-or-less the same pattern. Initially, when I turned fifteen, I trained to become a lifeguard because I wanted to work outside. This is all I did for one or two summers: I worked as a lifeguard at local pools. Then, however, I felt pressure to "consider my future," so I found a volunteer internship opportunity at Carnegie Mellon University. Since it was unpaid, it was rather flexible, so I went in for a few hours, two days a week, and lifeguarded the rest of the time. The following summer, I found an internship with College Prowler, Inc. that paid me a stipend. I continued to lifeguard and fitted this internship around that job, but things were scheduled considerably more strictly now that money was involved. The summer after that, the working roles reversed: I found an internship that demanded regular hours and provided regular pay. Still, I was unwilling to give up lifeguarding, so I filled in for lifeguards when they went on vacation and on the weekends, and spent the rest of my time interning indoors.
Then came college. This has already been described above, but let me add a few details: I decided to walk onto the varsity swim team at the beginning of my sophomore year, knowing full well (and being reassured by the coach) that I would be the slowest person on the team. I decided to double-major in completely juxtaposed subjects (English and Brain & Cognitive Sciences) AND to go abroad for a semester AND to get an English honors degree. But not only would I get an English honors degree, write half of the thesis the first semester, and then I would completely start over the second semester, just because I wanted to write a memoir, and the first-semester thesis-writing course required a research project (i.e. did not permit anything "creative"). Furthermore, not only did I work at Hillside Cafe, but I was promoted to the 2nd-in-command student supervisor senior year, when my friend became the manager. And I held three other jobs in the meantime: as a Writing Fellow, as a proofreader for a professor, and as a freelance copy editor for a student writing his own book. And yes, I meanwhile managed to secure the Time Inc. internship that led me to NYC, while courting Teach for America . . . just in case I couldn't make the publishing thing work out.
And now, here I am! So who knows what challenge will be next.
Growing up, my parents always threw me themed birthday parties at home. I had the option of holding the parties elsewhere—one year I think I had a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese—but then the one-fewer-than-your-age guests rule no longer applied (because of the expense) and, in that case, I could never have invited all of my friends! So I usually chose to have my parties at home where, every year, my parents arranged all of the games, food, and favors around a single theme. Some of the themes were really creative: I remember having a unicorn theme, a detective theme, and a backwards birthday party theme, just to name a few.
Eventually, though, I no longer wanted to be just a guest at my own party; I wanted to be the host, too. I think it was my 12th birthday when I came up with my own first party theme: a Barbie Birthday party! Now, this couldn't just be any ordinary Barbie party. We wouldn’t just be playing pin-the-boob-on-the-Barbie and eating pink frosted cake—not with my tireless imagination and penchant for making things as complicated as possible! In my dreamed-up game world, the guests’ Barbies would compete by selling and shopping for Barbie clothes, a bit like Mall Maddness, Life, and Sim City all rolled into one. Add Barbie dolls, fake Monopoly money, a house turned into a Barbie neighborhood via paper signs and cardboard placards, and a Dairy Queen ice cream cake (my signature! Never went a year without it at home), and you have my birthday party.
This party turned out to be such a hit that I continued to host my own parties every year after that. A few were more memorable than others; the ones that come to mind are Gameshows, Candy, Favorite Things, Camping, and—perhaps my most creative—Survivor. They finally culminated in my last and most “adult” party: my 18th Dinner Party, for which I (with the help of a few family members, of course) dragged our dining room table into our living room, dressed it in our finest linen table cloth and china, cooked a four course meal (complete with endive salad and chocolate cake for dessert!), and fed twelve of my closest friends, after which we played cards—just like “real adults.”
Ironically, that was the most “adult” way I ever celebrated my birthday. My 21st birthday was completely anticlimactic—I arrived in England about two weeks beforehand, making me of legal drinking age the moment I stepped foot on British soil. Furthermore, since I had only been in the country two weeks, I knew almost no one; thus, I ended up tagging along with two Singaporean girls I had just met to a church service they were attending. (By a stroke of luck, one of them suggested that we go out for dinner afterwards, where they treated me because it was my birthday. And believe it or not, the one who suggested we celebrate my birthday by going out to dinner is, today, one of my closest friends!)
I have no idea what happened to my 22nd birthday, so clearly that one is lost for good. My 23rd birthday was the first one I spent in NYC. I barely knew anyone in the city, so my dear cousin K___ took me out to eat my first Ethiopian food. I suppose this was a very “adult” way to spend a birthday, but again, I didn’t do much (or anything, really) to actually put together a celebration. Therefore, I decided that this year, since I now actually have friends all in one location with whom I would like to celebrate, I would try to arrange a real birthday celebration for my 24th birthday.
Four weeks before the designated date, I began researching various seafood restaurants that looked enticing, with the help of yelp.com, New York Times, and recommendations from friends and colleagues. Three weeks beforehand, I set out on a venue-finding expedition. In one Saturday, I visited six different seafood-restaurants (alas, I only looked at the décor and picked up a menu at each location; I did not taste the food). At the end of the day, I decided upon Lure—by far the most impressive façade of the bunch.
Alas, in spite of all my planning, it was not to be. I sent out an Evite two weeks ahead of time and even managed to get 7 affirmative replies. (Which, out of 23, was actually a very good turnout.) Unfortunately, those 7 gradually dwindled to 5, which shrank to 3, which eventually petered out to 2 latecomers and R___(who, since he was visiting me from Boston, would have to come with me wherever I was going anyway).
I guess this is what happens when you get “older” and live in the busiest city in the world: the people who live there get busy and don’t have time even half of the commitments they make. In the end, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because I severely underestimated how exhausting the process of moving from my apartment from Queens to my apartment in Jersey City would be. (Which, of course, being my ambitious self, I had scheduled to take place on the very same day.) However, it did not lessen my disappointment in the fact that I missed out on yet another birthday “celebration” surrounded by friends. But I guess this is what “real” grown up birthdays are all about: you go out to brunch or lunch or dinner and let someone else pay for it and call it a celebration. And you mark down another year past, and a few weeks later throw out all those birthday cards (except the best ones, like the ones that say: “where’s the party at?—Don’t end sentences in prepositions!—Where’s the party at…bitch?” Those you put on your bulletin board for posterity).
For next year, though, I have the best idea: I’m going to go with a Christmas theme. Buy everyone else presents….
Having lived in Pittsburgh all my life, I never stopped to consider any of its communities outside of a purely pragmatic standpoint. The mall was located in Monroeville. The movie theatre was in the Waterfront. The bowling alleys were in North Versailles (pronounced, of course, "ver-sales"). This Christmas, however, as I explored the 'burgh with a friend who hails not only from L.A.--where she is currently earning her master's degree--but from Singapore (her home country), I began to realize that the communities around Pittsburgh have distinctly "natural" sounding names.
Consider, for instance, the many animal-themed communities we have:
Total Time: 23:13
Pace: 7:29 (yikes! that's practically my half-marathon pace....)
Age Group Place (female 20-24): 1 of 4
Overall Place: 28 of 175
However, I encountered a few snags, in my attempt to follow it.
Meanwhile, it was snowing and hailing and sleeting intermittently throughout this whole thing. Needless to say, I only ran about halfway out before getting lost, and I walked nearly the whole way home. Talk about a failure of a long run.
The day before that attempt, I competed in the YMCA Turkey Trot. I ran it as more of a sprint and less of a trot, seeing as there were 2,416 runners in total, and I had no interest in finishing 2,416th. I came in 124th overall, and placed 6th* out of 428 women in my age group (20-29). My finishing time, disappointingly, was 21:41. For some reason, I cannot seem to break 7:00 per mile. It's terribly frustrating!
I failed again two days later, when I raced in the Treesdale Turkey Trot. This time, I finished in 23:33--considerably slower than in the YMCA race, and this time well over 7:00/mile. Unfortunately, since the race was not timed by chip, I never found out how I placed. There were only about 200 runners in the entire event, though, so my placement couldn't have been too bad!
NOTE: I came in 30 seconds behind a girl I actually know: she was the cross country and long-distance track star of my graduating class. Talk about weird life turns--for someone like me, who picked up running all of two years ago, to consider someone like that a "running rival! See full race results here."
The same goes for the people who live in Pittsburgh: many of their lives have drastically changed, but yet they are still very much the same people I knew when I left Pittsburgh. My family provides one example: my sister is now in her junior year at the University of Pittsburgh. She started out applying to prestigious musical conservatories around the country to sing opera and is now preparing to apply to graduate school in order to become a physical therapist. Yet she is still the same energetic, enthusiastic, endearing sister I have always known, who tries to make me “dress up more” and wants me to dance to hip hop music with her in every room of the house at every hour of the day.
My mother and father are also the same . . . but different. They are both working far more than they ever worked while I lived at home—three jobs apiece during tax season, when my dad works for the U.S. Postal Service, Aramark, and H&R Block, and my mom works for University of Pittsburgh Press, UPMC Rehab Services, and (also) H&R Block. Otherwise, however, they are merely aging versions of their endlessly patient, good-humored selves.
Where the most drastic changes have occurred, I think—and therefore the scariest changes—are with my friends. These are the people I grew up with: my neighbors, my classmates, my high school crushes. Seeing them take what I consider to be enormous steps in life is both a little bit scary and a little bit heartbreaking. It’s scary because I know that I am nowhere near taking on these sorts of gigantic responsibilities. It’s heartbreaking because such huge changes, ultimately, cannot help but wrench our life paths in separate directions.
One of my best friends recently got married. In her case, I was already realizing the differences of “married life” and “married priorities” well before she was married, because even a year before the wedding, she and her now-husband were already hanging out primarily with other couples, a number of whom were already married. My visit this break merely confirmed what I already knew: that one’s definition of “family” ends up defining one’s definition of “friends.” Unfortunately, that means married people hang out with married people, and single people . . . .
Case in point: another one of my friends found out he was a father last year, moved in with his girlfriend, and committed himself to raising her already-three-year-old son as well as his own newborn daughter. Now, he no longer talks to any of his former friends, many of whom are still single, and all of whom are childless. The worst part is that this friend pool includes me. And as sad as this might make me I do understand, because even if I call him once, twice, ten times, his children will probably need his attention, and when you have kids, your kids come first. When you’re single and childless . . . all you have to worry about is you.
The third huge life-altering change I witnessed while I was home in Pittsburgh was a purchase: one of my friends bought a house. We’re approximately 23 years old, and this guy feels settled enough to buy a house. Meanwhile, I can’t even decide if I want to live in Queens, New Jersey, or China. Talk about being in different places in life!
Like always, one of the questions I was most frequently asked was, “Are you coming back?” Of course I said yes, I’d be back already at Christmastime, but then the questioner would revise their question. No, no, they would say, do you think you’ll ever move back? To Pittsburgh.
While I usually give the same noncommittal, “maybe, but I can’t see why,” type of response, my answer lately has felt more and more certain. Over the years, as I witness more changes in lives of those around me, I feel less and less compulsion to come back. If I could have frozen time right when I graduated high school and then left, gone to college, done my stint in New York City, gallivanted around the world, and then returned to things exactly as I had left them here in Pittsburgh, I might feel a stronger compulsion to stay. But I don’t fit here anymore. This space, in this portion of my life has changed shapes, and it no longer calls to me the same way it did when I first left. Every time I come back to Pittsburgh, it feels vaguely like I’m trying to force my life back into that original shape, even though I recognize that so much has changed. And it hurts to try to make things like they once were, because that’s an impossible feat, and one that always results in disappointment. It’s just that the place feels the same, and the people are the same. But everything has changed. Including me. So I doubt I’ll ever really be back. But, as they say, never say never.
But we’re all very self-centered individuals, and no matter how much we remind ourselves to think of others first, everything does ultimately end up being about us, even if only in our own minds. All anyone has to do to be reminded of this self-centeredness is to watcdh the bridesmaids get ready. Sure, we helped Emily get into her dress and made sure she ate breakfast, but then it was all, “Can you fix my hair?” “Can you repaint my nails…for the seventh time?” Everyone fusses over their appearance until the very last minute as though their walk down the aisle is the one that will be most-remembered. Yes, it is a group effort, and there is sharing and cooperation, but all of it is done at one person’s gain and another’s expense. (Poor M___, who volunteered to come do hair when R___ broke her finger at the rehearsal dinner never even had time to get dressed. She was still in her pajamas fifteen minutes before the ceremony, curling G___’s hair!)
For my part, I couldn’t stop obsessing about the toast. I’d never been to a traditional wedding before, so I’d never heard one given. Moreover, a lot of people would be there who I needed to impress, not least of whom were my best friend the bride and her to-be husband, the groom. Plus, my father would undoubtedly be critical—he always was of oral presentations—and my mother and sister would be anticipating nothing short of a literary masterpiece. And this wasn’t even counting the various mutual friends E___ (the bride) and I shared who would be in the audience with their families. In short, my reputation was on the line.
After much consideration, I decided to take notes on the full speech I had written and give the toast that way. I am very opposed to reading anything straight from paper, so this was a fair compromise, and in the end it worked out pretty well. Of course afterward, when I sat down, I asked my family what they thought.
“If I have one criticism,” my father said, “it’s ‘um…um…um….’”
I blushed a little and thought to myself, well, at least I didn’t say ‘like’ too much. My sister, of course, gushed, but she would have loved anything I had said, no matter how poignant or dull. I had no real measure of how things had gone until later, when my date, M___, pulled me aside.
“I’ve been to a lot of weddings,” he told me, “so I’ve heard a lot of toasts. And I have to say, Allison, that really is one of the best ones I’ve ever heard. It was really wonderful. Really well said.”
That right there made up for all manner of criticism from my father. What lacked the most was any comment from the bride or groom, but they were busy, and I didn’t really expect them to pay me any mind, considering that this was their day; they should attend to whomever they pleased.
Soon after we ate, I made a point to mingle with my various acquaintances. I knew several people and their families on E___’s side of the room, so I wandered about to say hello. At one table, several of the mother’s called me over, so I left my friend and went to their section of the table.
“You look lovely,” one mother said. “Absolutely stunning,” another agreed. “And you just floated down that aisle,” the first one told me. “We were all stretching our necks, going ‘Where are her feet?’” They all laughed. “All the other girls were like ‘step, step, step,’” she imitated with her hand, “but you just floated!” Several other women murmured agreement. I blushed, mumbled something semi-gracious, and made my escape back to my table. When I relayed the odd exchange to my family, my mom nodded knowingly. “You did,” she told me. “You really were very graceful. It looked just like you were floating.” How about that!
I have the marathon to thank for this realization, but in two separate capacities. First of all, the day after I arrived in Pittsburgh, as I was running around doing errands, meeting up with old friends, and basically utilizing every minute I had, my mind kept wandering back to New York. I can’t wait to go back and tell _______ about this I would think. _______ is going to love hearing about this. As I caught myself thinking these things more and more, I realized that the people I wanted to tell about what was happening to me were mostly present in my “new” life: they were the people I worked with, the people I played volleyball with. Granted, I was thrilled to death to be home and visiting with my lifelong best friend. Yes, I had a college friend in Boston whom I would immediately call when the marathon was over, because he is near and dear to my heart and had supported me throughout my training. And I would certainly contact my dear friend in Singapore, because she was so amazing that she was following my race online from halfway around the world. Ultimately, though, the random, silly thoughts that floated through my head as I walked around town, the excitement I was feeling about the race, the reactions I felt to my terrible date—these were all things I found myself wanting to share with my New York friends. Being away from them and realizing I was eager to return and tell them things is what made me realize that these people were now the ones near and dear to my heart, no longer people I spent all four years of high school or college with.
The second way in which the marathon made me realize the quality of my New York friendships occurred once I returned. I was on my computer at work a few days ago when one of my friends from volleyball, L____, contacted me.
we (m____, d____, and p____ and me) wanted to give you something for finishing your first marathon. i know this is long overdue but we figured out what to give you! i couldn’t get it because i need most of your personal info. M____ has been buggin me about it for days and i couldn’t seem to get it. we wanted it to be a surprise but i don’t know how to get it to you. we would have wanted to cheers for you at the finish line instead but pittsburgh is way toooo far for us....Needless to say, I was shocked. Really and truly shocked. I had been surprised enough when I had first returned after having run the marathon and found that these people—M____, D____, P____, and L____—had already looked up my results online in order to congratulate me. Sure, I had emailed everyone the link to the results page, but really, that email was more self-serving than anything else. I was really excited and wanted to share my excitement; I didn’t actually expect anyone to go and look. I, of all people, know how incredibly rare it is for others to share in someone’s excitement and enthusiasm for something, particularly if taking action is involved. So just the fact that they bothered to check up on how I did—that in and of itself really touched me. But to find that they were buying me a gift??? Because they were proud of me and my accomplishment?
This is one instance where words fail; there are simply no words to describe how meaningful it is to have people demonstrate that they care about you. The word “touched” is sentimental and weak. To describe wanting to laugh and to cry, wanting to hug these people and to punch them simultaneously doesn’t make sense of the emotion and indeed just makes it seem more complicated. “Ecstatic anguish” sounds far too dramatic for the reality of the situation. The bottom line is that I feel undeserving, but I do still feel overwhelmingly grateful.
The hardest part of all is that this is NYC: everyone moves on, sometimes almost immediately. Thus, I will do my best to accept kind and generous people in my life as they appear and do my best not to cling to them. The kinder and more generous they are, however, they harder this is going to be.
Then they delay the flight—not once, but twice. The first delay is fifteen minutes. Fine; I have no problem with a fifteen-minute delay, because I understand that things happen. But then it’s another half-an-hour before the plane even shows up, and as soon as its passengers debark, the crew is hustling us on, telling us we had better hurry if we want to “make it in time.” We had better hurry? We have been sitting in the airport for forty-five minutes!
Thirty minutes later, after sitting motionless on the runway, an announcement came on, rousing me from my Pittsburgh-to-JFK slumber. In this announcement, the flight attendant informed passengers that we must debark, because this plane will not be departing for JFK now until six o’clock. Apparently a crew member had timed out and will need to be replaced before the plane can take off again, and so our flight will now be delayed until 6p.m.
We all file off, with important-looking businessmen already on their phones with their travel agents, everyone waiting for their non-checked, stored-under-the-plane baggage (since Delta now charges $15 per checked bag). Everyone with connecting flights lines up at the counter, and I take my seat. Six o’clock rolls around, and we all get back onto the plane. Twenty minutes later, after a suspicious silence from the engines and no movement from the crew, the captain comes over the loudspeaker and informs us that he has some very unfortunate news. Apparently due to a runway issue at JFK, there is an air traffic delay that will be causing yet another stewardess to time out, and so we will have to once again debark the plane. They have no further information at this time. They are very sorry.
We get off the plane and pick up our luggage again. Now the businessmen are louder and redder as they spit into their cell phones. “Unacceptable” and “ridiculous” are the buzzwords of the day.
No sooner have we deboarded and lined up in front of the counter, when the airport attendant comes over the loudspeaker to apologize for the delay and informs us that a new flight attendant has been located and we will be re-boarding the plane as soon as she is ready. We all stand clustered around the entryway grumbling and wondering how legitimate this claim is for another thirty minutes before getting back on the plane. It is now 7:15 p.m. The plane is finally in the air at 7:35 p.m.—over four hours after it was scheduled to depart.
I am officially irate. My flight coming to Pittsburgh was delayed by more than an hour both in the airport and on the runway. All that, and now a crew member who couldn’t manage her schedule? If anything deserves a letter of complaint, it is certainly this. Delta management, you will be hearing from me.
Meeting Faith: The Forest Journals of A Black Buddhist Nun by Faith AdieleWhat I did not care for as much were the actual from-the-journal notes that lined the margins of the book. These seemed like a book unto themselves and I could not decide when, as I read the actual text on the page, I was supposed to read these bits of text. They flowed in their own logical way, telling their own independent, yet related story, and it was very distracting to try to keep both stories in mind at the same time while jumping back and forth between the two texts. I tend to keep strictly to reading one novel at a time for a reason, and to read two novels literally simultaneously is exhausting, never mind confusing.
Nevertheless, this is the first book that actually makes me want to pack up my belongings, ship off to another country, and try something that, as a premise, totally terrifies me. Faith makes it sound like a challenge worth pursuing. Her book was beautiful, and if I ever spend a significant amount of time in Pittsburgh again, I intend to attempt meeting her. She teaches at the University of Pittsburgh
Still, I think living anywhere for a significant period of time contributes to my sense of identity and, consequently, creates in me a sense of loyalty to the place. I wouldn’t say I developed a sense of loyalty to Rochester “the city,” since I never really explored the community in any in-depth way, but my identity certainly includes the fact that I am an alumni of the University of Rochester. I am very proud of this aspect of my identity, and I will speak enthusiastically with anyone about how great it was to be a member of the swim team, the wonderful open curriculum, and special U of R traditions like Meliora Weekend and Dandelion Day.
Similarly, if anyone asked me about my time studying abroad in England, one of the first things I would say is how grateful I was to have been forced to live off-campus, in the town of Brighton. Initially I was horrified at the prospect of being excluded from “campus life,” since, I had found this so valuable while living at U of R, but the more time I spent in Brighton, the more I fell in love with it. I’m sure that, had I lived in London, I would have grown equally attached to that city, but because I spent my six months in Brighton (when I wasn’t travelling to other parts of Europe, that is), I emphatically asserted afterwards that I was glad to have lived and studied in that town instead of in the big city of London. It gave me a much more relaxing, town-y, “English” experience.
Now I’m in New York City. I don’t think I will ever be able to say I am from New York City, or at least not for the next twenty years or so (I am constantly being called a “tourist” by my NYC friends), but after having lived here for the last nine months or so, I have again developed a sense of rapport with this city.
My first realization of this newfound loyalty occurred when I went to visit a friend in Boston. I had never been to Boston before and was quite eager to explore a new city. Unfortunately, I did not end up seeing much of the city that weekend, as R___ and I mostly went out to eat, walked around Harvard, and hung out at his apartment. However, I did get a general feel for how Boston differed from NYC. The subway system was one major indication. It was so small! Consider this map:
vs this map
Obviously NYC has infinitely more people to cart around, but Boston must be a significantly smaller city, as well, to have so few lines serving such a limited area. And it was tremendously frustrating to have to wait for a train for twenty minutes on a Monday afternoon just to travel one stop!
Another difference that caused me to realize my partiality to NYC was Boston’s lack of resources or, by comparison, NYC’s abundance of resources. On one evening, R___ and I wanted to go buy cookies to eat while we watched football with him and his roommates. Apparently, there was only one possibility within walking distance: a small convenience store located two blocks away. This arrangement alone wasn’t too shocking—if I had wanted cookies at 9p.m., I would have walked to a convenience store near my apartment, too. Even the singularity of our options—one convenience store—I could understand: outside of NYC, it probably wasn’t normal to have three convenience stores within one block of cityscape. What was shocking was the limited number of choices inside this convenience store. The shelves were nearly empty! I am accustomed to shelves bursting with product: fresh fruit spilling out of bins and bright drinks filling coolers jammed along walls. This convenience store looked like it was about to go out of business the next day. We took the last package of Chips Ahoy, grateful that there were even any cookies available, and R___ tested two lighters before finding one that actually worked. As we left, I absently wondered if this was even a 24-hour convenience store or if, had we arrived one hour later, it would have been closed. How unusual, to have cities with bedtimes!
Which brings me to my next trip: Washington D.C. My bus arrived late, putting me into the city at midnight (instead of 10 p.m., when it had originally been scheduled to arrive). My friend K2 met me at the station in order to take me back to her apartment before setting out again to pick up our other friend, K1, from the Reagan Airport. K2 seemed a bit on edge, and when I asked her about her mood, she said she was worried about what time K1’s flight would arrive. Why? Because the DC metro shuts down at a certain time! My mind immediately jumped to how inconvenient my life would become if the NYC metro ever shut down. And to think that I gripe about alternate weekend schedules and limited services after midnight….
To its credit, DC’s metro is incredibly easy to navigate; the next morning, I was able to hop right on and off without any confusion in order to meet my friend Lexi Devourat L’Enfant Plaza (or, as I prefer to call it, Elephant Plaza). Unfortunately, this ease of navigation is also a limitation, as my resident friend K2 tells me that a car is a near necessity to access certain areas of the city, and that one derailed train will disrupt the entire system. Fifty percent of my reason to live in NYC is in order to avoid owning a car! If one derailed train delayed the every other train in the system, NYC companies would have to do away with start times (which may not be nearly such a bad thing)….
Here is the DC metro map, for comparison:
Finally, one last thing must be said about each of these cities’ metro systems or, actually, about their physical structures. Boston’s cars are quaint and homey-looking. They remind me more of old-fashioned train cars than underground subway cars. The cars’ exteriors resemble trolleys, and the train stations are enormous, cave-like places. DC’s cars are a bit more modern, but much more posh, with bright orange, red, or blue cushioned seats. The floors are even carpeted. Additionally, these cars are built to be “handicapped friendly,” which basically means the centers are wide open spaces where there is nowhere to hold on during rush hour. DC stations, however, are extremely similar to Boston’s stations, with high ceilings and smooth gray stone walls. The primary difference in DC is that every station has more escalators than stairways. A city primed for lazy tourists…? NYC’s cars, compared to the subway cars in these other two cities and have gritty uncarpeted floors, are usually dimly lit (unless you are fortunate enough to catch one of the newer ones with the florescent lighting and automated station announcements). They are designed for one purpose: to squeeze in as many people as possible. Moreover, NYC’s subway cars are ten times more advertisement-plastered than either DC’s or Boston’s cars. Although if you want your product to be seen, I guess you have to advertise in the place where most people will see it. The most crowded city in the world’s transportation system is probably prime for that!
So when all is said and done, I cannot help but find myself partial to NYC’s metro system. Ours is the biggest, the most efficient, but also the most complicated. If you can navigate the metro system in NYC, you can navigate the metro anywhere. (Except perhaps in Greece. Any country where you don’t speak the language—that barrier trumps all. Trust me—been there; done that.)
By the time I reached high school, the precedent for stage performances was already set. I had tap-danced for ten years at Ken and Jean’s Dance Studio, where we were all expected to match our tights, shoes, and hairstyles as identically as we tried to match our movements on stage. Hair was always tied back in a bun; it looked sloppy and unprofessional if you let it hang in your face. Bangs were pinned back, flyaways sprayed down. When your dance was over, you had the first ten seconds of the next song to exit the stage (in choreographed synchrony, because you were still onstage!) while the next class entered. This was simply how things were supposed to be done—efficiently, effectively, and above all, with a smile.
Therefore, it was not real shock (although perhaps it should have been) to find that my high school musicals were run with the same regimented attention to detail and efficiency. Sets were built to absolute specification. Scene changes were executed flawlessly, without pause, so as not to interrupt the show. Our director hired a professional soundboard operator, paid various musicians to supplement the students in the pit orchestra, rented lighting equipment we didn’t have, and employed a team of volunteer mothers to tailor and even sew-from-scratch costumes to fit the cast. Truly, no detail was too minute. The result was a legacy of outstanding performances. Year after year, from Jesus Christ Superstar to Seussical, the high school produced one award-winning performance after another. It was only when I began to attend some of our rival schools’ musicals did I realize how unusual my school’s program really was. Closing the curtain between scenes? Having stage crew members come on stage to move the set? Anachronistic costumes? These things just seemed unacceptable to me, until what was repeated over and over again to me by my mother sunk in: our high school musicals were produced on a professional level. Other high school musicals were just that—high school musicals.
All of this reflection leads me to an experience I had recently, of being part of a live audience at the filming of the television show America’s Got Talent. Now, understandably, this was no Broadway show. The admission was free—tickets were given out by lottery online and then admission was granted on a first come, first serve basis—presumably in order to generate the largest crowd possible. However, I did have some expectations. After all, these were professionals, filming a show that would be televised on a national network. They were all working people trying to do a job—why wouldn’t they want to be as efficient and cost-effective as possible?
In the beginning, as the “hype man” went around trying to be funny and entertaining, I tried to be positive. Yes, I was willing to concede, a little audience coaching at this point is probably helpful. However, after an hour of pointless, “Right side cheer! Left side cheer! Okay everybody scream! Clap softly. Loudly! Everyone from Brooklyn cheer! From Manhattan! From New Jersey!” I genuinely felt stupider. Sitting through this grade-school type entertainment was flat-out demeaning, never mind boring.
Then, finally, the show started. All right, I thought, second chance. It turned out to be pretty much what I expected—a less impressive knockoff of American Idol featuring people who not only sing, but hula hoop, hang from trapezes, and unicycle while singing. Just like on AI, some acts were impressive, others horrific. I wasn’t so much horrified by the actual quality of the acts, however—because the show obviously screens everyone and intentionally features people who will make complete fools of themselves—as much as I was how long it took the stage crew to change the set between acts. How long does it really take to put a keyboard on stage or to fix two strands David Hasselhoff’s hair? (For those of you who don’t watch the show, Hasselhoff is one of the judges, along with Piers Morgan and Sharon Osbourne.) The answer, at least according to these guys, is fifteen minutes. Literally every two or three acts, the show would stop for at least fifteen to twenty minutes, during which time the “hype guy” would have to go around saying stupid things, trying to get the audience to stay awake enough to remain in their seats but not impatient enough to walk out the door.
Filming was slated to begin at 6p.m. By 9:15p.m., I had had more than enough. I was thoroughly disgusted by the lack of efficiency by which this show seemed to operate (these were professionals! getting paid!), never mind irritated by the swarms of junior high and high school aged students who seemed to radiate an aura of annoyingness. (Maybe these were my memories of being annoyed by my younger sister resurfacing, or maybe all the screaming over every warbly note uttered onstage had finally gotten to me—Americans are so ignorant!) I had to leave. On my way out, I picked up my cell phone, which the security officers had confiscated at the door. (You would think I might have learned how to hide contraband effectively, having attended high school with this sort of daily security, but to no avail; we never got patted down in high school.) Finally out on the sidewalk, I turned to the friend who had initially invited me, hoping to commiserate. However, one look at her face showed that she did not feel nearly the same level of disgust that I felt. I kept my thoughts to myself. Until now, of course.
The most significant difference between my two lives, however, is the people. In New York City, all of my friends are professionals in some capacity; in Pittsburgh, the majority of my friends are still in school or are working “filler” post-graduation jobs. Moreover, while my New York City neighbors and coworkers come from all over the country and the world, very few of the people I know in Pittsburgh have ever left, nor do they ever intend to leave. People in New York City are ready to jump on the next “best opportunity,” to move, to start again. People in Pittsburgh are getting prepared to settle, to establish themselves, and to create stable lives.
Finally, there is the age difference. Every one of my New York City friends and coworkers—with the exception of one girl, who works at the desk beside me—is at the very least five years older than me. My Wiley running buddy is in his 40s, with a 3-year-old daughter, and I play volleyball with men in their 70s. Alternatively, I do not have a single Pittsburgh friend who is more than one year my senior. I never considered the implications of this age gap until I went home to Pittsburgh for Christmas and spent time with my peers en masse.
Over the last seven months, I would say I have grown accustomed to what are considered “social outings” here in New York City. Going to a bar is a social event, whether it is a late-night pub crawl or a happy hour after work. Seeing a play or a musical constitutes an outing, as does going to the ballet or the symphony. And, of course, going out to eat is probably the most common get-together of all: there are breakfasts, brunches, lunches, dinners, coffees, tastings, and “just going out for ice cream.”
Obviously, in Pittsburgh, these things would all be considered social outings, as well. Therefore, the New Yorker idea of an “outing” is not special by any means. However, I had a sudden revelation while attending a fellow’ high school alumni’s Hanukah party one evening. There I was, sitting out on her back porch in the cool December air at 11pm, drinking Pepsi out of a plastic bottle as everyone around me drank their glass-bottled beer. We were all lounging in rusted lawn chairs under one dim lamp nailed to the wall, and everyone was huddled around the gritty circular ashtrays on the tiny table in center of the porch, smoking and tapping off their ashes. It was at this point, as I gazed around and noticed that I was the only one wearing something other than a hoodie and sneakers, that I began to have the vague notion that, were I back in New York City, I would never ever be doing anything remotely like this. My realization didn’t make the activity good or bad, it was just surprising. Even if there were a porch available, everyone in New York would have been more dressed up, like me, and the place would have been more decorated, and there would have been other alcohol on hand besides just beer. What I realized even more, though was that the situation wouldn’t have been different just because I was in New York City; it would have been different because the crowd I hang out with now is 30 instead of 23. By default, 30 is a classier crowd. Everyone tries to look nicer and can afford to look nicer and is simply intent on acting more “adult-like.” I have gradually begun to assimilate into this 30-year-old crowd, and it was shocking to realize that my 23-year-old peers, who are all still hanging out with one another, are so different.
At 1 a.m., everyone decided to leave and play Frisbee. That was when I knew I had become different. This felt weird to me. Frisbee? At night? It was just not something that occurred as a fun activity we should go and do. (Thirty-year-olds don’t play Frisbee unless they have a dog, a child, or a team to play with—as far as I am know—and they certainly don’t play it at 1 o’clock in the morning.)
As it turned out, playing Frisbee was fun, in spite of the fact that I had to run around the parking lot in black flats that flapped on and off my feet while the rest of the boys ran in laced-up tennis shoes; still, I did the best I could, and no one seemed to mind. Afterward, we went to a local hole-in-the-wall bar where the boys paid for my drink, and the fact that I was impressed made me realize how little I think of boys my own age.
No matter his age, I am always appreciative when a man has the courtesy to pay for my drink, meal, or ticket. As a rule, though, I am almost always more surprised and impressed when someone my own age makes this gesture than when someone older does it. Perhaps I think that older gentlemen have been raised differently or assume that they will have more money and therefore will be more generous with it. Whatever the reason, I felt very aware that I was probably making more money than most of these guys, and although the majority of them were still accepting money from their parents (either in the form of tuition or room/board), I still felt impressed that they were willing to pay for my drink.
It is strange to think, however, that my Pittsburgh friends are “catching up” to my New York friends. One or two have children, now, and a few are engaged to be married. Fortunately for me, I have a good many New York friends who are single and in their 30s. Granted, several of them have been divorced and/or have children, but at least the road is not paved solely with marriage and children. And maybe there’s even room for some late night Frisbee-playing, too.
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