The Shortest Chapter Ever Written
It’s cliche, but I like to think that life is a book. If that’s true, then my time at Columbia - my time living in the city - was the shortest chapter ever written. It felt as if I’d just taken a hold of the pen before the page turned and I was already onto the next chapter. It was hard to slow down. I was constantly moving; through trains, subways, and noisy, narrow, city streets. There was no time to stop or stand still and simply absorb the beautiful whirl of the bustle. I regret not reflecting on it-- for overlooking the stories surrounding me on every subway car, for ignoring the way my heart syncopated with the sounds of sirens and taxi horns. But, back then, every day blended into a hazy blur of streetlights and heavy textbooks. I blinked and woke up-- the dream, always visible through the heavy bar smoke, was too distant to grab. Suddenly, I was a shell of a five-foot-two female, living an unfamiliar life that seemingly landed in my lap. On a train uptown, I scribbled in my tiny notebook, “the person I want to be is a distant stranger. I catch a glimpse of her on trains and subways, but never in the mirror.” Turns out, she was there the whole time, just not in front of me. Instead, she was behind me the whole time, guiding me home.
Despite these bouts of imposter syndrome, I fell into a fast routine. In New York, you need to keep up or get swept up. Always determined, I wouldn’t let myself fall into the latter. So, I managed -- mostly on autopilot and anxiety, but managed nonetheless. Unfortunately, my days were not spent skipping down Broadway or wandering wide-eyed down the white halls of art galleries. Rather, I’d wake up between the walls of my dank, humid bedroom in a narrow, putrid-smelling apartment I shared with four pleasant and intelligent girls. There was always just enough time in the morning to get dressed in the dark, brush my hair, pee, and grab a protein shake before rushing to catch the 1-train.
Fall semester found me headed uptown towards Washington Heights -- a place difficult to describe, and ever harder to forget. The streets welcomed me with the warm smell of coffee and Spanish music on every corner. Older women with teeth like corn-on-the-cob stood in a line along the sidewalk selling rainbow bandanas and gently used pocketbooks. Gentlemen wrapped in stained aprons always nodded curtly as they swept the pavement beneath a fruit stand. It was a strange place -- one I had never met before -- but I felt safe. When December came, coated in a blanket of snow, the goodbye was fast but left a permanent hole in my heart. It was hard to leave. I hoped my short mark there would always remain nestled among the bright graffitied bricks.
Just short of one-hundred blocks south led me downtown, where I completed my second phase of student teaching in a bright and polished school right near the Lincoln Center. 66th Street was rich and sleek, like the many high rises lined along it-- a stark contrast from The Heights. I got there early enough in the mornings to familiarize myself with the shiny new territory. It felt more like the city I always knew, but quieter and cleaner than Times Square. I blended in fairly seamlessly among the throngs of sleep-deprived Juilliard students and preppy interns trickling in from Columbus Circle. I liked it. Walking the blocks around the Lincoln Center was my favorite form of therapy. If I strayed too far, the Apple Store, with its sleek and clear windows, was large enough to pull me back to the center. I sat on benches across from ritzy hotels, sipping hot chocolate and dreaming about another life when the one I had got too hard.
At 2:30, almost everyday, I began the quick journey back to Columbia University. The subway cars were always crowded. High school students, with their hefty backpacks, sat on the outdated orange plastic seats and ignored the homeless men asking for spare change. Young mothers clutched babies to their chests, cooing above the underground rattling sounds. Businessmen stared at their phones, rolling their eyes at emails and news articles. I stood in the corner, hiding behind a book and thinking in song lyrics until getting off at 116th. Sometimes I stopped across the street at Pret-a-Manger to remember my days in Europe. I’d treat myself to a basil, tomato, mozzarella sandwich and iced green tea with an extra packet of Splenda.
I always walked through campus, taking note of the ragged bricks beneath my boots and the color of the trees. I walked up the steps towards Low Memorial Library -- sometimes dropping everything to sit and eat -- feeling more like a tourist than a student. I walked along more brick paths until I reached Amsterdam Avenue. I walked a lot that year-- especially from 116th to 122nd Street. On the brutally cold days, I cursed the eight minute walk with every step. In the summer, when sweat pooled between my backpack and t-shirt, I longed for the snow again. Half the time, my mind was busy screaming thoughts, but every once in a while, I’d look around and remember to breathe. I took note of the familiar faces, wondering if I ever knew them in another life. I’d smile at crossing guards, and study the swagger of polished professors, wondering how long until I’d be one of them.
When I would return to my apartment building, diagonal from Columbia Social Work Library-- where I could be found most nights -- I always held my breath. On the third flight of stairs, just past door number seven, were usually puddles of urine-- or worse, a pile of heaping shit on the floor. The entire staircase reeked of the ugliest smell in all of New York. It was hard not to gag. An old white man lived there. He was a hoarder who lived with roaches and sick dogs. He liked to play hip-hop music at four in the morning, the bass thumping through the floor -- but, I prefered that over his screaming pornos at three in the afternoon.
From three to five, my only ‘free time’ was spent writing papers and reading articles and researching theories and making lesson plans. Then, from 5pm to 7pm and 7pm to 9pm, I could be found in class -- which, for the most part, I enjoyed. I had professors who challenged my beliefs and changed the way I view the world-- the ones who, ultimately, molded me into a better educator. Then I had a few who were pedantic and insensitive who I desperately hoped I would never turn into. I met a range of intelligent and intriguing characters in my classes, including Kyle from Maryland, Rachael from Washington, Emily from Florida, and Carina from South Africa. We spent class laughing and learning while gossiping and complaining about the injustices many students are faced with. These conversations inspired me to pursue my passions, even on the days I came to class with my soul asleep and red eyes filled with tears.
When we got out for the night, there was no time to hit the bar or grab a drink. There was no clubbing until the sun came up. Afterall, this was not Sex and the City. This was Study and Try to Survive. Our lives depended on it - our future students depended on it. I would not risk it, even if it meant foregoing the stereotypical ‘city experience’. Still, I wouldn’t change anything. I didn’t go to Columbia to tell stories about waking up in a frat house sans a memory. I went to grad school to better myself, even if it first meant meeting myself at my worst. I was broke and exhausted, constantly berating myself, and always wondering if this would all be worth the anxiety and tears.
Spoiler alert: it was.
