People ask me where I’m from, and I always have to pause. My first instinct is to say, “New York”, because that’s where I’ve been for the past seven years. But I’m not really a New Yorker.
My second impulse is to say, “Massachusetts”, because I was born and raised there for 18 years in the same house in a small town off of Cape Cod. But I’m not the same teenager just out of high school I was when I left that place.
Sometimes I say, “America”, which, thanks to Obama, is finally an option again. But I know it’s kind of a cop-out, because I don’t know how else to qualify where I come from over here.
In New York I had routines that kept me going. I had Wednesday-night bars, where I found familiar faces even from the strangers in the crowd. I had a restaurant for tapas, and a spot for Saturday brunch. I had friends I called on to meet me out dancing, and those I knew I could call after a hard day. I had favorite spots in different parks, where I could sit and read without being bothered, or loose myself in a crowd.
In New York I had the subway. I had an hour plus commute that gave me all the time I needed to my own thoughts, dreams, plans.
In MA I had a bathtub. I had a room whose door I could close, and, eventually, a car that could take me away from the home I lived in for 18 consecutive years.
Here I have a meditation room. I have a writing corner with pillows and a green rug that I call “the garden.” I have a 20 minute bike ride to work that forces me to move my body, no matter how lazy I feel in my bones. I have a thousand angry bikers, motorists, and drivers who wake me up at 7 a.m., forcing my senses to sharpen and my adrenaline to pump even without early morning caffeine. I have all the fresh vegetables I want for pocket change.
Each day I have ten “Good morning, Rebecca!”s, surprise hugs from little arms, and a countless number drawings and notes that remind me of why I’m here.
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