Why I am a Ghetto Girl

I received several responses to my September 5, 2008 posting, particularly concerning my reference to myself as a “ghetto girl.” I don’t think that, at the time of writing that post, I meant the reference in terms of an oft-presumed “she said what?” attitude and outrageous “bling” sense. Rather, I meant to imply that I tend to live in conditions that I know many others would find unacceptable or even preposterous. I consider it creative, practical living, but in a sense, it is very “ghetto.” Below, I will offer some examples.

When I was living in Brighton, there were no hooks anywhere in my room. Moreover, shelving space was tremendously limited. Therefore, in order to keep my hair accessories (i.e. bandanas and hair ties) up and out of the way, I devised some simple, self-made hooks: I taped twisty-ties to the wall.

I did not start ironing my clothing until about 3 months ago, when I began interning for Time Inc. At that time (no pun intended), I used my suitemate’s iron and ironing board and suffered through a good many overly saturated clothes as I tried to get out the wrinkles with the various iron settings. I have since purchased my own iron, and my ironing board now consists of a very sturdy white end table that I originally bought to elevate my dorm-sized refrigerator.

My rescued-from-the-trash black wire shelving unit currently serves not only as a simple shelving unit (for my books, papers, etc.), but also as a desk (for my stationary, stapler/glue/tape/post-its/etc./lamp), bureau (for my face wash/brush/lotion/etc.), and towel rack.

I don’t keep my belongings in drawers anymore, I keep them in Miller Lite and Office Depot Copy Paper boxes.

My Rolodex is a cardboard box with scrap cardboard tab dividers.

If you offered me a diamond bracelet or a hoodie, I would, in all seriousness, most likely take the hoodie. (This is assuming, however, that there is no receipt included with the gift. If there is, I’m taking the bracelet. Then I can return it and buy twenty hoodies!)

Bedrooms

I feel like I’m living out the life of Goldilocks, trying out all of these beds in all of these new places; the only difference is, each bed is in a new residence. Right now, I’m sleeping on a combination Papa/Mama/Baby Bear bed, as the bed provided to me in my new Queens apartment (and, consequently, the only piece of furniture allotted to me upon my move) is a rock hard, medium-width, and extremely short futon. I suppose I have been spoiled, most recently having slept in a super-plush, king-sized bed at the Hilton Hotel in Madison, WI for my Epic interview. Before that, I had the luxury of sleeping in extra-long dorm beds at both Columbia (very soft) and Rochester (firm but remediable with double mattress pads). Then, of course, before that I had my dear double bed in Pittsburgh (which, I must say, is juuuuuust right). This futon, though, is nearly the equivalent of sleeping on the floor. And if I ever find a man worth having over, he’s going to have to be shorter than me, because I barely fit lengthwise on the bed! (This must be another way of God’s signaling that the time is not right. Thank you Baby Bear.)

To give you a comparative sense of what various abodes have looked like over the past six months or so, here are some shots of the bedrooms in which I have slept.

Pittsburgh

Don’t mind the goofballs constantly on my bed. One’s a former friend, the other’s my sister. (Hopefully all of you recognize me.) Isn’t my furniture lovely? My parents have such good taste.

Brighton

I’m including this, even though I lived here over a year ago, just because it was such a unique residence. It definitely qualifies as the smallest room I have ever lived in. But I’m a ghetto girl, so I successfully made it my own, falling-down plaster and all.

Rochester
This was my senior year dorm room. Again, ignore my silly dad, but if you were to stand where he is sitting and turn around, you would be facing the image of next photograph (with me in it). The storage spaces were built into the walls in that dorm room, which turned out to be quite efficient.
I am also including a shot of my sophomore/junior year dorm room, for comparison. Notice how the furnishings don’t really change over the years…?

Columbia

This was by far the largest dorm room I have ever had the pleasure of staying in. What's more, it had air-conditioning and a gorgeous city skyline view, right out the window! Unfortunately, I could not ring such praises for the rest of the campus facilities, but at least I had a cool, clean haven for the months of June and July.

Harlem

My cousin’s apartment was only a temporary residence, but I did stay there for about a week, so I am including a picture. The leveled futon on the right is where I slept, and it was significantly longer than the futon on which I am sleeping now.

Queens

And this is my newest bedroom! Again, same basic decorations (yellow bedspread, blue carpet, multicolored lamp), but this time with much more makeshift furniture. The carpet makes the room so much homier than it would be otherwise, really. Without it, the main attraction would be all the cardboard boxes I have stacked on my wire shelving—not so attractive. I do love my windows, though! Next purchases (upon the attainment of monetary substances) will be brighter-colored curtains (because brown is quite honestly the ugliest curtain color I have ever seen) and a basil plant for my windowsill (and for cooking—obviously). I can’t wait!

Learning Experiences

I hate to keep comparing New York City to England, but in the ways each experience has forced me to grow and to face myself and discover who I am and what I am capable of, they are proving to be very similar experiences. In both places, I am being forced to navigate new areas, to meet new people, and to establish new routines. I am forced to buy my own food, to cook extensively for myself, and to live amongst people whom I never met and will probably never see again after our short time being together.

Also, in both places, I am very out of my element: in England, I was literally a foreigner; in New York City, I am only metaphorically so. However, I oftentimes feel more foreign here than I ever did in England. When I flew across the Atlantic Ocean, at least I expected a few language barriers. Who knew I would have to learn a different vocabulary not only to work for a specialized magazine, but just to speak with my pop-culturized, fashion-savvy peers in the most popular city in America?

Meanwhile, in order to keep from going crazy, I am doing my best to chalk everything up to a “learning experience.” Looking for an apartment isn’t about finding one or else ending up curbside at Columbia University on August 2nd with no home, it’s about learning how to look for an apartment. I’ve never done this before, and it’s something I will certainly need to be able to do, pretty much for the rest of my life, so I may as well start now. Going to a job interview shouldn’t be a life-or-death experience, it should be another trial run, another way to be better prepared for my next interview, whether or not this particular company hires me. I’m not going to be “perfect,” and I don’t even know what a “perfect” candidate would look like to them, so all I can do is practice being prepared, professional, and as much “myself” as possible. Then, I can use the experience to build my interviewing skills for the next one while crossing my fingers and hoping for the best when I shake the HR representative’s hand and walk out that door.

Of course, I don’t always manage to think this way. Just yesterday, I was suffering from the “What am I doing” “I don’t know where I’m going to end up” “What if the end of July comes and I still have nowhere to live and no job” “Or worse, what if I have one and not the other because then I can’t even surrender and go home” panic attacks. As I have told many people recently: I feel like I am living in a never-ending finals week, only this time it’s Real Life.

But I’m trying my best to be level-headed and to just plow ahead and do what needs to be done. Really, what other choice do I have?

Deja vu

I have moments here where I feel transported back to Brighton England. For instance, when I am grocery shopping. NYC is so crammed together, there is no space for a big, sprawling, suburban supermarket. As a result, everyone here buys from small, local vendors, from little shops selling little portions. Bags of chips come in single servings…if you can find them. Here in the “heart of America,” fresh fruits and vegetables are more prevalent than junk food—can you believe it? You walk down a street, and yes, there are flashing neon lights blinking at you and scantily clad men and women giants staring down at you from jumbo-sized billboards, but then you try to find a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry’s to make yourself feel better at the end of the day, and you’ll be lucky to find a convenience store selling a pint. Chances are, you’ll end up settling for a vendor selling blended ice.

Or maybe that’s just the part of town I live in. And the part of town I work in. And the part of town I’ve traveled to. (Upper West Side, Midtown, and SoHo, respectively.)

But then there’s the gym. Columbia’s gym absolutely transports me back to my experience in England, and not in a good way, either. This is not to say that people in NYC do not care about working out; on the contrary, they most certainly do. You will not see a more fit group of people than the runners in Central Park. If anyone ever tries to tell you that a body type is “unrealistic” or “impossible,” they should spend one afternoon walking amongst the Central Park joggers.

No, what I am referring to is Columbia University’s gym. Tuition to attend Columbia is a good $20,000, with student life fees amounting to around $1,000. For all of this money, I would expect a decently-equipped gym, and certainly one that does not make me feel depressed the moment I step inside the door. But here is the defining descriptor of Columbia University’s gymnasium: it is underground.

Now, I understand that I should not complain. After all, Time is housing me for free, and more than that, giving me free gym access for two months in New York City, the most expensive place to live (I am assuming) in the U.S. However, if you are going to build a gym underground, you had better give it amazing ventilation. Columbia’s gym has no air-flow. None. The air in that place is stagnant. And it is dark. And dingy. I am very interested to know when it was built. (I guess all of this researching for This Old House is starting to rub off a bit.)

In any case, Columbia’s gym reminds me a great deal of gyms in England. And it makes me miss that country.