This week will bring an end to a chapter that’s been drawing to a close these last few months. There have been some bitter sweet goodbyes. Some simply bitter. Some simply sweet. 

Among them was the end to my first job in New York, in favor of another that’s way more my speed, my style, and where I feel truly challenged. I still feel valued, but it’s totally different due to the more high profile nature  of the team and role and the higher stakes. 

I am moving out of my first apartment in New York into my first one in the city this upcoming weekend. It’s the end of a first, yet the beginning (I’m allowed to double dip this time;). I’m excited to be in the mix socially and in terms of energy, and could hardly be more centrally located at all – one would be hard pressed to find anywhere in the city where one could as quickly get to anywhere else in the city. It’s also a ten minute walk to work for me which is even better than I could have ever reasonably imagined. 

How I got the apartment is actually a testament to bravery, risk taking, aggression, blah, blah, blah.. all that stuff. I’ll just let you be the judge – here’s what happened: Two Friday’s (roughly ten days) ago, I flipped open an apartment hunting app on my phone and saw an apartment that seemed to good to be true. The price was great. The location was great. The pics looked great. The open house was for Saturday September 12. I decided to walk by the place when I went out for lunch just to get a feel for whether it was worth coming back down for it the next day. 

The door to the building was open, but there was just a staircase and no one to talk to. I was uncomfortable just walking in, so I turned to leave. Then I decided not to. I walked inside. Just in the door, before the stairs was a plaque with the name and contact of the building management company. I called it, but “Barbara” wasn’t at her desk. It was lunchtime, but she may have been busy otherwise. I decided to walk up the stairs. At the top was a door with the respective apartment buzzers. I also saw taped to the door the name and number of the building manager. I called and he picked up. I told him why I was there and explained that I understood if it wasn’t in his purview, but I asked if I could see the apartment anyway. He told me that he was actually in the apartment at that very moment with the real estate agent responsible for showing it. They buzzed me in. 

That same afternoon, within two hours I had submitted the application with the exception of the reference letter and proof of employment – though the bank statements clearly showed routine income from my employer. I went back the next day to the open house and saw people streaming in and out, all highly interested. I stood watch and listened as the agent answered questions encouraging several of the others to apply. I reserve judgement on that for several reasons, but naturally I wasn’t thrilled. It added to the suspense. I knew that I was the first applicant, but whether they would honor that and whether I’d be the best candidate in their eyes was another matter. NYC apartment hunting is super competitive. 

Long story short, I went in and signed last Thursday. I negotiated a sanding and refinishing of the hardwood flooring, a coat of fresh paint had already been put on, and I locked in the rate for two years versus the one that was offered initially, and as is standard. I’m furniture shopping these days and even looking at rugs. Yup. Rugs. And I’m enjoying it. How about that?

I’m launching a new chapter. I’m paying homage to the old and to the people who held me down (read: picked me up) when things were bumpier, and slower, and seemingly less certain. You know who you are and I appreciate you.. 

I just got off the train where at one of the final stops a “mother” got on with a stroller and a seven year old. I know that the girl was seven because it came up as a part of the mother’s rant.

The girl wet herself on the train, and if you’ve ever witnessed a spill on the train, there is hardly anything more of a taunt than a liquid ebbing and flowing with the starts and stops of the train and changes of pace, right in front of the culprit. It is a reminder that will simply not go away. I understand the mother’s embarrassment. And the child’s.

Yet, cursing at the kid wasn’t helpful and I am not sure at which point precisely the child started to wail – when she realized that she had wet herself and lost control, or if the mother had followed through on one of her many loud and menacing f-bomb laden threats to hit the child about the face. After the third threat (accompanied by the wail) and before I realized that urine was see-sawing centimeters from my orange (salmon?) converse, I turned around to discover the actors in this tragedy. I was incensed. On the train were roughly 80 people whose attentions were mostly captured by the ruckus. 

I clearly and firmly told the mother to stop yelling at the child and said that children should be given the flexibility to make mistakes. This was not precisely my word choice, as I don’t precisely recall my choice of words. My firmness and annoyance though were unmistakable. I wanted to suggest that this is one major reason that girls of 14 or 15 come home pregnant because they are out “there” looking for love that should be found at home. I refrained. She suggested (loudly) that I mind my own business. I told her that she made it my business when she made me listen to her abuse her ward. 
She shut up, and so did I, but I kind of wish she hadn’t because I had a lot more to say, and I really felt like belting it. I really wanted to press her into thinking about any mistakes she’s made since being seven – I’d have pointed more explicitly to the mistake she was making right then. I permitted my response to stay balanced and pithy, but a diatribe was definitely ready to come spilling forth, ebbing and flowing all over whomever was close enough to be sprayed with it. And this isn’t the first time I’ve interjected on behalf of children in similar situations. It’s heartbreaking and bothersome each time. 

I always hope that I am not making things worse for the children, but my conscience won’t permit silence and my voice will hopefully remind parents to love and parent and not victimize the people they’re intended to protect. I’m grateful for my parents. 

No one on the train spoke up in defense of the child, but one woman gave me a thumbs up after the fact and another came up to me one stop later to thank me for “doing what I had to do”, but where was their voice when the innocent was being hurt? Why sneak me a flash of your wrinkled thumb, and whispered voice?

I don’t want your thumbs or you congratulations. I already know that what I’m doing is the right thing. Everyone knows it. So, do it too. Take a stand, don’t be afraid, don’t be ashamed. Some have said to me “be careful with that”, and I say “I’ll accept any consequences for doing the right thing and for doing what I believe”. I’m not special. This is only a reminder. Use your voices. Let your good hearts sing. I am not afraid. 

Free dark babies 

From young vagina prisons,

Into a dark world,

An old system.

Newly conceived jails await,

Young and old. 

Forever pregnant. 

I, like many other people, have been to very nice (and exceedingly/unjustifiably? expensive) restaurants where they “bestowed” upon me the smallest portions imagineable, almost baby sized. I recall on one occasion being presented with ice cream that looked like a hollowed out scoop taken by teaspoon. The spoon actually provides reminded me of something small enough to be used in a surgery. The implication: savor this. 

Years ago when I was in Las Vegas, before moving to NYC and experiencing the “Guggenheim proper”, I visited the museum’s stepchild there. The first two rooms were filled with stuff I disliked. I couldn’t wait to see the rest of it. As moved through the second room, I saw daylight and upon asking the security guards if this “was it?!” It was suggested that I retrace my steps really spend time with the paintings. Condescending assumptions notwithstanding, the implication was: savor this. 

I savor ideas. I savor words. The worst time to savor words is when I have a ton to read for work. That would be to scarf down the crumb-encrusted crumbs, or to sprint through the museum, even if we dislike the pieces. It’s also not a good time to blog per se, but words inspire and the gift of inspiration should never be (fully) ignored (and certainly not often). I’ve been doing both too frequently..