Reflecting On Life In New York & A Dream Deferred
My heart was set on Harlem. I pictured life uptown having the same vibrancy as its Renaissance days, the streets teeming with art and music and poetry spots. I envisioned myself in a spacious studio apartment flooded with natural light and a bookcase whose contents stretched toward the ceiling. The bay window I dreamed of would be my favorite place to read and write, and I would curl up with a mug of something warm and sweet while peering at the bustling scene below.
Undoubtedly, there’d be a guy trying to get a beautiful stranger’s number. Though unsuccessful, he would not be dismayed. In fact, he would bounce back quickly from the disappointment in time to catch the next object of his affection that floated by.
I heard the impatient ringing of a young child’s bike bell urging his dad to let go of the handlebars so that he could catch up with his older brother. Dad would finally release his youngest to freedom only to catch him shortly after the bike began to tilt.
A pair of lovers who spoke sweetly to each other through embraced lips would come up for air briefly only to laugh. I imagine the laughter was due to a clumsy clanking of teeth.
And an old lady assuredly sat nearby on a park bench studying a folded newspaper. She’d move her hand across the page occasionally as if counting, plotting the best words for a crossword puzzle.
This was the Harlem of my dreams. This was where my dream of becoming a published author would come true. I wanted to write for the People like Johnson, challenge the People like Wright, and enjoy life as a Motley painting made me feel I should.
But circumstances hijacked my dream.
My reality was working two jobs in addition to my internship to gain stability as an adult. I worked until the early hours of morning. I was tired all. of. the. time. There was no spacious studio or bay window. There was trash and smells and rats. But I was also working myself out of 20+ years of survival mode, and I was building stamina for long term independence.
In theory, I should be really proud of myself. I fled to New York with three suitcases and a half-baked plan to survive. Eight years later, I live to tell the tale despite exchanging my dream of being a writer for the confines of a “sure thing”.
**Enters the pandemic and other traumatic events of 2020**
And I realize how true it is that nothing in life is guaranteed. I may never get out of debt. I could possibly be single forever. My credit may forever be s — ty. But no matter how responsible I’m determined to be, this year has shown me that sometimes the deck is stacked with wild cards. Twenty-twenty has given me all the incentive I need to begin to live for joy instead of security because, is that even a real thing?
I can’t afford to give up on my dream. It’s one of the few free things I own. Plus, at the end of my life, I doubt I’ll think back to New York and celebrate how responsibly I lived. But if I change course now, I’ll be proud of my decision to cut loose the safety net and resurrect my dream once deferred.
