My Love Affair With New York City

My love affair with New York City goes back as long as I can remember. Although I am a New Yorker -- born and bred -- I spent the majority of my childhood in Queens. But Manhattan was where I wanted to be. I can still smell the chestnuts when I would come out of the subway to go to Rockefeller Center. I remember the chaos/boredom of sitting in my father's car waiting for him to return from working at a job on the Upper East Side. I remember driving over the 59th Street bridge -- and it did look exactly like the intro to the tv show Taxi. I loved my City then, and I love it even more now.

For a long time, I've wanted to chronicle all of the neighborhoods in which I've had the opportunity to work or experience in some way. Each one has made a indelible imprint on my life. Actually, it's not exactly the neighborhood that has made the imprint -- it is the set of unique experiences I had in those neighborhoods that did that.

This may bore my few readers and by the time I'm done, it might get monotonous for them but this blog is actually for me, so here goes:

Battery Park City -- I loved this neighborhood long before people actually realized it was a neighborhood. Working there when I was 17 gave me my first independent experiences in New York City. I worked for the organization that managed the site and one of my monotonous jobs was to organize the photo library for the site. There is so much that can be learned from a few thousand photos. Anyway, I worked down there for three years and during that time my favorite place to be was in South Cove park. It was this beautiful haven that overlooked the harbor -- probably one of the most peaceful spots in all of New York City. At least, it was back then. It's crazy how a public park can give someone so much joy and contentment. The aesthetic of sea grasses combined with a little viewing bridge that mimicked the crown of the Statue of Liberty makes it one of my top 10 places in New York City.

Battery Park City is next to the World Trade Center site. And, yes, I walked through the World Trade Center every day on the way to and from work. I, too, felt at home in those towers and cried from the depths of my soul when the they fell in 20o1 -- more then 10 years after I left my job downtown. They were my towers in my City and then they were gone.

Upper West Side (West 80s) -- During my last year of high school, I was selected to participate in an internship program at which I worked at a place of business four days a week and on the fifth attended an enrichment seminar (I'll cover where I worked when I get to Hell's Kitchen). I had basically finished all of my high school requirements in my Junior year, so I had my Senior year available to take part in a cool program like this. Well, during that time, I was introduced to a college guidance program called Options based out of the Goddard Riverside Community Center in the West 80s. I fell in love with this neighborhood. I wanted to live in one of the beautiful houses on one of the blocks I walked down to get to Options. The houses were like the Huxtable's house on the Cosby show (that show was on the air at the time) -- and I wanted to live there. Well, fast forward 20 years, and I'm not there yet. Not sure if I ever will be. Maybe I'll take a walk there again soon. I wonder if it still looks the same.

To be continued...

The Chameleon

Every once in a while, I wonder who I really am. Doesn't everyone?

I feel like a chameleon. I blend into the background of where I am at any particular moment. I choose to show the real me only when I crave for what I really want or need. And then I step out from the camouflage, very carefully, letting myself be seen and be my most vulnerable. I don't do this often, but when I do, I am afraid I'll get eaten up. And sometimes, when I make myself vulnerable, I do get swallowed up. So I am very, very careful now. Maybe that's why I hide behind the disguises of who people think I am.

It's amazingly personal, yet I don't think I am alone in this. I can choose to be whomever I choose to be at any specific moment in time. My demeanor morphs so easily and willingly, while my soul really remains the same. Everyone knows only one or two pieces of me. I am...
a mother
a wife
a lover
a friend
a confidant
a daughter
a sister
a colleague
a business woman
a student
a teacher
an advocate
People see whatever they wish me to be at that very moment. And I only show them what I want them to see. I am Superman and Clark Kent -- Diana and Wonder Woman -- all at the same time.

No one really knows me. I'm not sure if I even know me. I get lost in all of the constant changing. Am I the sum of all my parts or just a collection of random identities?

I am truly a jack of all trades -- but am I a master of nothing? Or am I just a master at conforming to my surroundings and to the company at hand -- a skill suited to those who know how to survive. I know I am a survivor.

Writing 101

Welcome to my big, big world – all encapsulated in this very little blog. This is a nice efficient use ever of a few bytes of virtual space. Lighter than a paper diary, these blogs are a treat for the voyeur in all of us. One click and we’ve broken into the “secret locked diaries” of our friends. It’s become such a natural thing to do – to pour your soul out to your computer screen.

As I’m writing, I’m thinking about whom I might share this with. Do I keep it to myself and just pass by from time to time to reflect on and laugh at my attempt at introspective writing? Do I share it with my closest friends? Do I really want them to know me that well? I know who I will not share it with. That part is easy.

Now, regarding writing...

When I was young, I was not much of a writer. My life has been riddled with the best of intentions when it comes to writing. As a kid, I received beautiful diaries at my birthday parties from the girls in my class. I would write for a couple of days about school life, friends and the like, then quickly forget to add journal entries as soon I realized that I really didn’t have anything interesting to write. I lived a pretty sheltered, mundane, easy, non-tragic childhood. Days would pass, then weeks, then months, then the diary would eventually disappear – probably into my mother’s closet somewhere. (I still believe she has a stash of all of my secret diaries and notes and pictures of boys and other things I eventually forgot I had.)

During high school and college, writing was not difficult but rather just endured. I would spend the days leading up to my assignments just thinking about the topic and imagining what I would write about. I would procrastinate until the very end. Then after dinner on the night before it was due, I would finally sit down and crank out page after page of my assignments on my prehistoric word processor. I did well. I always finished in time. I got lots of As. It wasn’t a challenge, but I know I could have done better - much better. It just wasn’t that important to me at the time.

After college, I began working for a public relations firm, where my then-boss and now-mentor Gary trained me to write. He did it, surprisingly, by handing me tape after tape of his dictation. The first time handed me a tape, I looked at him incredulously and started to cry. I had graduated college with honors and in the very top of my class, been recruited by one of the top p.r. firms in New York City – only to be told that I would now have to type up dictation. What’s worse, I sat in a desk near the president’s office, so everyone in the firm that I admired had a first-row ticket to my desk where for a few hours every day, I popped on my telemarketer headset and started typing.

So I typed and typed and typed. I hated rewinding the tapes, so I learned to type almost as fast as he could talk. Now I try and type as fast as I think. It's impossible to do, but I try because I'm afraid I'll forget my thoughts before I get them out!

Back to the dictaphone...It was at first embarrassing, then I got over it . It became just a task to be endured. But in the end, I realized that it was a blessing. Those endless tapes of dictation taught me how to write. And his endless revisions taught me how to be a solid editor. I learned that writing was just typing what I would say if I was talking -- assuming, of course, that I used proper grammar (which I did), and that I made sense (which I think I did). In the end, I became a fairly good non-fiction writer. Eventually, I got promoted and I would push out press releases, pitch letters, fact sheets, brochures, guide books and some solid press kits. The writing wasn’t fancy and elaborate; it was clear and my clients liked it. I didn’t use many big SAT words. I just explained my topic clearly and logically. I learned how to be a good communicator and I am thankful for that. It has come in very handy in my life.

Gary taught me that writing did actually matter. He taught me – through his writing – about how to say “thank you” and “you’re wonderful" and "I like you” to people. He wrote kind words to everyone. He wrote notes to about a dozen people almost every single day. He told people: “thank you for having lunch with me;” “thank you for spending time with me;” “thank you for introducing your friend to me”; “thank you for hiring me,” thank you, blah, blah, blah. He wrote notes to people saying: “it was nice seeing you yesterday,” “it was nice meeting you today,” “it was nice tripping on you in the elevator today,” “it was nice seeing your best friend on the street today.” Gary was the king of yadda, yadda – before anyone ever knew what yadda, yadda meant. And those were only the notes he had me type!

He also hand-wrote notes that made my doctor’s handwriting look neat. “You’re great” or “congratulations on your hit” or “well done” were typical. Gary gave our group a sense of confidence that was unparalleled. The notes were pretty illegible, though. Co-workers would come to me to have me translate his glyphs. I was proud. I was Gary’s “special” assistant. I could read them!

One thing was absolutely true – no one ever forgot that they met Gary, because he made sure you knew he didn’t forget you. The power of those notes and letters was great. This was before e-mail when you got to hold a tangible note in your hand and could read the kind words over and over. They were sent in a time when writing a note was an inconvenience (believe me, it was). But that made them all the more precious to receive.

So that awful dictaphone really was my learn-to-write machine and my learn-to-treat-people-well machine. These days I never forget to say thank you, and I never forget to tell people they are great when they are. I’m very thankful for that terrible machine now.

More on Gary another time...