Dear
Readers,
These
days I have a growing collection of emails and Facebook messages and texts, all
yet unanswered and all asking me the same thing: how is life in New York? And then the question is usually followed by
something akin to, “I’ve been reading your blog. When are you going to post more about New
York?” I leave these messages
unanswered, not because I don’t care about the people who send them but because
I don’t know what to say. That’s the
trouble with being a writer, I always want to say just the right thing and if I
can’t be sure what that is then I don’t write.
I experience writer’s block even when it comes to Facebook messages.
So
I want you to know that I am writing this for you, my dear readers. I am writing this for you, my friends and my
family, who send me birthday cards and kind words from around the world and who
are always there with me – on the phone or just online – whenever something
goes wrong for me. I am writing this for the people I care about and the people
who care enough to read this blog – and for a new reader that I happen to care
a lot about. I am writing this to tell you how my life in New York so far.
In
the past five weeks I have often found myself imagining what I would write as
possible responses to those unanswered emails and messages and texts as I go
about my day, as I walk down the street or as I eat bad food that I would never
have pretended to like in Chicago or Cannes or Canterbury or Platteville. And then today I found myself wanting to text
everyone who’s messages I had left unanswered with just the simple statement
that I am wonderfully, happy. Yes, wonderfully, happy. But I didn’t do that because that isn’t
always how New York is for me. At least
four days out of the week I am usually terribly lonely and frustrated and
disappointed. So far I haven’t made many
friends and my M.F.A. program is a let-down and I still prefer the atmosphere
of Chicago to that of New York. And I
haven’t found many little things that I love yet. I don’t have a favorite café or restaurant or
take-out place or street. And I often
worry that I will never have these things, while I constantly idealize my
favorite little things about Chicago – my favorite walks to take, my places to
eat, my favorite café to sit and have a conversation – all of which I loved
because they became part of my routine to the point that when I think of
Chicago, I am thinking of walking down Fullerton Avenue and seeing brownstone
urban splendor and I am thinking of eating Mexican food so hot I could scarcely
breathe as I sit on the edge of Lake Michigan, watching the pink evening sky’s
rippling reflection languish on the water’s surface as night flows in.
And
so, you see, I never return any messages because I feel like I don’t have the
right stories to tell you. But tonight,
as I walked home from class the refrain from my memoir-in-progress struck me
once again as relevant: we become each
other’s stories. And I realized that
I do have a story about my life thus far in New York. I have a boyfriend. Surely, many of you know me as the
ever-hopeful romantic but this time is different. This time is what I was hoping for.
I
met him on my fourth night in the city. I
remember thinking he sounded like a real New Yorker when he first told me his name. As it turned out, he was from Boston. I was just so new to New York when I met him
that I didn’t really know what a New Yorker sounded like.
When
I first arrived, New York had felt like just another place but from the very
beginning he didn’t feel like just another man.
He was tall and he possessed a caring, carful charm. He had the kind of eyes that I had only ever
read about, had never seen in real life.
Nonetheless, when I opened my eyes in the midst of kissing him on the
night of our second date and saw his blue eyes looking back at me I knew that
he had what the books told of; he had smiling eyes. That night, as I lay beside him, staring up
at his bedroom ceiling as I waited for sleep to find me, I noticed his smiling
eyes watching me and I saw in them the hesitant look that I am sure has been in
my own eyes many nights in the past years.
It was the look that said that he would rather stay up late talking to
me than do just about anything else. And
so we did. And so we do.
A
week later, as evening lay itself down upon the soft bed of night, he kissed my
shoulder while streetlight spilled through his bedroom window, kissing the rest
of me with warm September-gold lips and I found myself wishing that I had never
said “I love you” to anyone before because already I liked him more than I had
ever loved anyone I had ever said those words to.
I
realize, of course, that you might wonder why I am writing this here, but I
told you – I am writing this for you and for him. After all, how often do I write happy
stories? So since I now have one to tell
I really ought to write it and be damn proud of it. And so I am.
Those
of you who know me well or who have just been reading my writing over the past
several years know that I have written about the places I have lived and
traveled to, as well as the people I’ve known and the men I’ve been with. But I haven’t ever really written a happy
story. I’ve written melancholy tales of
how love wasn’t what I thought it would be and restless recounts of places I’ve
been. And whether you realized it for
not, the subtext was always that I was discontented and dissatisfied. I was always wondering if there was something
– someone – better out there, but always worrying that this – the particular
man of the moment – might be as good as it gets.
So
now I must tell you that I have a new boyfriend because in my daily life in New
York I work on my memoir, which is about how we become each other’s stories and
he is a good story – a happy story.
We
become each other’s stories. When I tell
you that I have a boyfriend I am telling you the story of how I learned to
never settle for anything less than I once dared hope for when I was too young
to know all the kinds of disappointing the world can be. I am telling you the story of how, finally, I
have found someone who not just loves what I love but who loves the way I love
it. I am telling you the story of how I
learned to have a little faith in people.
And
now let me close with that last story.
I
told you that I don’t yet have many little things that I love about New York,
but there are some big things that I have loved so far. I loved my whole birthday weekend and I loved
going on dates at The Museum of the City of New York and The Met. And I loved
going on a date to see Woody Allen’s Manhattan
at a vintage theater in Brooklyn – I may have loved that most.
On
our first date my boyfriend told me that he thought Woody Allen was a truly
great actor because he ended Manhattan not with a great last line but with a great
smile. In the final scene of the movie
Woody Allen’s character learns that the woman he loves is leaving to spend six
months in London. He tells her that
doesn’t want her to go because he is worried that she might lose “that little thing” that he loves
about her. She tells him that he has to
learn to have a little faith in people.
His response to this statement is a slow, sweet smile. I always thought that was his character’s way
of agreeing to have a little faith.
The
day after we saw Manhattan in
Brooklyn my boyfriend suggested that we write each other stories, so we agreed
to each write our own version of that date.
Ever the dedicated writer, I finished my story within the week. He still hasn’t written his so he hasn’t read
mine but the point of the story that I wrote for him was that, when I smile at
him, I am agreeing to have a little faith.
And I think that is a really nice story.
As always, Dear Readers, thank you for reading.
Yours Truly,
Molly Shea Kruser
***The title for this post is taken from Woody Allen's opening monologue in Manhattan.
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