For the first time in my life, I experienced the woes of a New York novice.
At the ripe age of 19, I’d learned the rules of this city: Never talk badly about it, always walk on the right side of the sidewalk, and keep five dollars in your back pocket for a rainy day.
But, as I just found out, there is an unspoken rule about this city that no one tells the younger generation: If you leave the city, it will forget you.
I discovered this the hard way. Store owners I had spoken with for years forgot my name. The handprints on 58th Street I produced four years ago were filled with new concrete. No longer were the confusing routes of the subway imprinted in my brain like a second language; I needed assistance to navigate my own home.
As I continued to grow and move forward at a university 380 miles away, the city did the same.
The city had forgotten me, and rightfully so.
A city with such a big heart cannot take the rejection that so many teenagers like myself thrust upon it perennially. We return home for several days throughout the year and flirt with past memories and old locations of joy, only to run away again.
The city is kind, letting us go. It realizes we are too naïve to appreciate the four rules it asks us to obey: Don’t complain about it; don’t take up the width of the sidewalk in large groups; don’t forget to carry cash; and, worst of all, don’t leave our city in search of something more.
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