I Want to Be a Part of It…

You can leave the Midwest and head to San Francisco, say goodbye to Alabama for more bigger and better job opportunities in Chicago, or escape the small town feel of Maine to make money in Boston. But chances are you won’t live as much as you can in New York.

We romanticized the idea of New York enough to come here, and remain steadfast in the face of its workday challenges. New York’s mythology rests so deep in our collective unconscious, its grandeur rivals that of the Emerald City or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Think of the New York rags to riches lore. Recall its muse-like quality to filmmakers — the urban landscape is forever immortalized in the celluloid beauty of Woody Allen films. Consider a city that provided inspiration for Breakfast at Tiffany’s and endless fodder for the NYC-centric comedies that never stop running in syndication.

These shows and movies, the upward mobility tales told again and again, are what perpetuate the allure of a city that New Yorkers know is sometimes more hype than reality. Nevertheless, to some degree, that allure is why we are all here, and by buying into that ideal, we make it a reality. More than anything else, New York is a city that offers possibilities. We have the possibility, however slim, to make it big, to take in the beauty and romance of the 59th Street Bridge (it’s the Queensboro Bridge to those on the other side of the river), on a bench near the East River, or to revel in pointless party hopping that doesn’t seem pointless at all in this anything goes, fabulous mecca.

The manifestations of New York’s mythology are ubiquitous. Its image is so powerful… it reverberates around the world. So considering that this myth touches us all, why doesn’t everyone come here? What makes us different from the people who are fascinated by the City and dream of a life here, but choose to stay home in their suburban nonentity?

Rich and poor, from all walks of life — immigrants, students, college grads, actors, bankers — come here for more of everything: more opportunity, more cultural stimulation, more diversity, more acceptance, more money. They come here, basically, to make more of themselves. But why come so far? You can leave the Midwest and head to San Francisco for a more liberally tolerant atmosphere. You can say goodbye to Alabama for more bigger and better job opportunities in Chicago. You can escape the small town feel of Maine to make more money in Boston, but chances are you won’t make, see, feel, or form as much as you can in New York.

What makes New Yorkers different from other urban dwellers is that we want to be in on the joke. We want to be where it all happens. We want to live in the center of the universe, the World Capital. And when we travel, we want to say, “I live in New York.” Because even though it’s an American city, and the US has lost its glint in the eyes of some foreign nations, New York is considered cosmopolitan, otherworldly. And as an idea, it transcends America. And its image manages, paradoxically, to retain the best of what America is — the opportunities, the fast pace, the excitement — while eschewing the worst of it — the religious zealotry, the prudery, the conservatism.

But the image and cachet of living in New York only lasts so long. And the reality is pretty taxing. For example, most of us are not living in the lap of luxury, or if we are, we certainly weren’t when we first moved here. When you live in the City, you run the risk of having bed bugs, because, according to news reports in the last year, there has been an upsurge. You might have cockroaches. Or mice. Or worse, rats. You might live in such a tiny space that you can stand in the middle of your bedroom (the same room that houses your stove and bathroom) and touch the opposite sides of your wall. And you could pay such high rent for that tiny, crappy apartment that you put nothing away in your savings account. You might have to ride the subway everyday, packed so tightly that the smell of your fellow commuter makes you vaguely nauseous. You could live in a neighborhood where the traffic is so heavy that cars honk night and day, and you find yourself holding back from becoming that person who sticks her sleepy head out the window and screams at the cars to keep it down. And your own car? Forget about it. You have to move it every Tuesday and Friday from 8:30 to 10:00am, or face $115 penalties. And on the career front, chances are the other people in your field are just as ambitious as you are, maybe more. They may motivate you at times, but steal your thunder and your spirit at others.

So in the face of these unpleasant realities, does New York get old, lose its luster, wear itself out? We may come here to be in the thick of it all, but what makes us stay as long as we do? It’s the daily grind that binds us together. It’s because we like the idea that New York is “gritty.” Because we persevere in the face of adversity, never bowing down to a challenge. Because those petty inconveniences are part of the fabric of the New York mythology. Because we are a sucker for those spontaneous moments that can only happen here. Because we know that New York does not come easily… because we wouldn’t want it to.

New York was an ideal we glommed onto, sitting in our parent’s three-bedroom ranch in a suburban wasteland, plotting our escape. We romanticized the thought of Madonna slumming it: what a brave soul she was. And we reinforced why it was all worth it: the struggle and the glamour, the stench and the beauty, the bodegas and the billionaires. Every scene in Central Park, every shot of Fifth Ave, every pan of the Brooklyn Bridge became a challenge. The bet was made, the dare doubled, and the dreamer in us (and the seeker and the go-getter and the self-starter) took up this call to arms. We sat in our little bedrooms and made ourselves a little promise about our lives. And the fundamental difference between those of us who have escaped the strip-mall provincialism of suburbia versus those who think there is no such thing, is a stiff dose of desire. We wanted New York badly enough to be here.

By Jeanine Plant