go
On a balmy night in Palm Springs, I delivered a speech to An and her adoring fans in a noisy diner with a classic lean-to roof. Empty, glasses with lip-stained rims sat in their eventual and unplanned pattern on the table. I read the speech from my Blackberry, a horrid sight but it was convenient and modern. Or at least the modern definition of modern and not the Palm Springs, 1960's space themed architecture and interior design modern.
In the speech, I spoke on behalf of the collective of An's fans including me. I personified Manhattan as a person receiving a gift from California and warned it of the gift's import. I only addressed An briefly in two parts of the speech so I thought I'd better serve our relationship by writing directly to her. An homage as well as an open letter to my friend the journalist.
When we sit at stoplights--you, the good host, in the driver's seat; me in the passenger's seat, shamelessly holding my distended belly and a bag of cookies or chocolates or chocolate cookies--there is a comfort between us that is familiar and familial. We are two, obedient girls. We heed and we consider. At stoplights, our minds wander, we have a moment of silence, I think of what we should eat next, you check out the cute boys in the car next to us and when the light turns green, on more than one occasion, I snap you out of your sunshiny San Diego reverie and say "It's your light, An."
Right now, you're on a plane to New York where there will be more lights than you can count. I was there, in the same city, with the same excitement and the same hope that something wondrous would happen. When you fly over Manhattan on your way to JFK, I hope you will have the same moment of double vision elation at the thought of what your move means. You are a brave girl. You said I was an inspiration when I moved away but you are your own inspiration now. Few people are so lucky.
Girls who obey are destined for lives that they don't know why they want. Girls who heed and consider will wait for permission so long that they'll forget what it was they couldn't do and become complacent. There's nothing you can't do. And for you, the wait is over.
It might be hectic at first, bumping into all those people on the street, selecting and ordering furniture for your apartment, learning how many groceries you can handle in one trip. But no matter the rain, the slushy black snow, the swindlers, the stairs and the taxis, I want you to go for it, no matter what it is. Fuck the noisy neighbors who smoke in the hallway, the train that never comes when you're in a hurry, the classmates you think are smarter than you, the wide eyed tourists in Times Square, the paper that just won't materialize in pixels on your laptop. Don't let any of it get the better of you. Nothing can stop you. You're a New Yorker now and you will jaywalk with the best of them because from now on, even if it's not, it's YOUR light, An.
In the speech, I spoke on behalf of the collective of An's fans including me. I personified Manhattan as a person receiving a gift from California and warned it of the gift's import. I only addressed An briefly in two parts of the speech so I thought I'd better serve our relationship by writing directly to her. An homage as well as an open letter to my friend the journalist.
When we sit at stoplights--you, the good host, in the driver's seat; me in the passenger's seat, shamelessly holding my distended belly and a bag of cookies or chocolates or chocolate cookies--there is a comfort between us that is familiar and familial. We are two, obedient girls. We heed and we consider. At stoplights, our minds wander, we have a moment of silence, I think of what we should eat next, you check out the cute boys in the car next to us and when the light turns green, on more than one occasion, I snap you out of your sunshiny San Diego reverie and say "It's your light, An."
Right now, you're on a plane to New York where there will be more lights than you can count. I was there, in the same city, with the same excitement and the same hope that something wondrous would happen. When you fly over Manhattan on your way to JFK, I hope you will have the same moment of double vision elation at the thought of what your move means. You are a brave girl. You said I was an inspiration when I moved away but you are your own inspiration now. Few people are so lucky.
Girls who obey are destined for lives that they don't know why they want. Girls who heed and consider will wait for permission so long that they'll forget what it was they couldn't do and become complacent. There's nothing you can't do. And for you, the wait is over.
It might be hectic at first, bumping into all those people on the street, selecting and ordering furniture for your apartment, learning how many groceries you can handle in one trip. But no matter the rain, the slushy black snow, the swindlers, the stairs and the taxis, I want you to go for it, no matter what it is. Fuck the noisy neighbors who smoke in the hallway, the train that never comes when you're in a hurry, the classmates you think are smarter than you, the wide eyed tourists in Times Square, the paper that just won't materialize in pixels on your laptop. Don't let any of it get the better of you. Nothing can stop you. You're a New Yorker now and you will jaywalk with the best of them because from now on, even if it's not, it's YOUR light, An.
posted by Katie at 11:14 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home