Taylor Swift’s anthem to New York blares in my ears as the train enters the North River tunnels.
8 years.
8 years since I traveled to the city for fun. Memories cascade across my feed to remind me of a June weekend spent forgetting my wedding anniversary. Fuck Zuck and his soulless Facebook algorithms!
8 years ago, I was in Manhattan then, too. I stayed at an 80s-themed hotel near the 9/11 memorial—a place where thousands go to remember and make sure we never forget. Yet forgetting offers us the chance to make new memories and heal. Doesn’t it?
I’m here to attend the premiere of a documentary about an Indian American family from Philly that celebrates the chaotic, beautiful ways we create family across race and culture.
8 years ago, I watched a very different film about a Bihari boy and his half-in, half-out, half-in again love affair with his Dilliwali half-girlfriend. That movie was forgettable, but I still remember that song about the rains.
Both films carry the same message:
Love is a revolutionary act. No matter how you love, opening your heart to someone else—as a lover, a parent, or a friend—requires bravery. A bravery I do not feel.
As I write and rewrite those lines in my notebook this weekend, I search for the safety to remember. New York’s most famous skyscraper looms before me.
8 years flash back. I can feel the rhythm of the city. My chest tightens, my heart races, and memories begin to obscure my vision.
That weekend, I criss-crossed the island like a pinball streaking from one side of the table to the other.
I ate a croissant at Tiffany’s and worshiped at the cult of Apple on Fifth Avenue and the Amazon Books on Columbus Circle that isn’t there any more, and I shopped til I dropped—how am I going to fit all of this in my suitcase?— and then rushed to Central Park, scarfed down a hot dog, and I couldn’t forget to look up, from the Brooklyn Bridge to the High Line, to the lights in Times Square that blinded me, but I couldn’t afford to slow down, not even for the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty or The Met, even though the Cloisters blossoms magnificently in the Spring.
Because if I had stopped to think for just 5 minutes, I would have remembered every moment of the 15 years that I was trying to forget.
The 9/11 memorial was the only place where I allowed myself to slow down, remember, and grieve.
8 years flash forward.
I promise myself that this time will be different. I drop my bags on the hotel floor and take Peanut for a quick walk. Later, I decide to skip the tour of the Empire State Building and get to know my neighborhood.
I wander in ever-widening concentric circles of experience. Searching for Tin Pan Alley and visiting Teddy Roosevelt’s house, I connect with the city’s historical memory. I browse the Rizzoli bookstore on Broadway and buy a children’s book in a language I can barely read anymore. Matita HB collects her childhood memories in a dynamic scrapbook of diary entries, postcards, letters, and comic-style doodles illustrating her adventures. I end my evening in a familiar bodega searching for late-night snacks. I go all in with Hal’s New York, selecting their dill pickle kettle chips and a mango seltzer water. New York born, New York made.
I set up my phone and portable keyboard on the window sill to achieve an awkward view of the city’s famous skyline. Hotel interior designers really need to think a little bit more about views from the bed. I hesitate as I tap out unpublishable thoughts that won’t make it to the final draft.
Rising before dawn to beat the rain, I marvel at the silence. I sit outside the Bagel Pub, sipping my coffee, noshing on an “authentic New York bagel.“ My order? A toasted everything egg bagel with chipotle lox cream cheese. A controversial choice perhaps, but at least I have better taste in bagels than that one guy running for mayor.
People are just people here, but my awkward shyness, made worse by the pandemic, leaves me a spectator in their world. Two men stroll by, discussing their marital woes, and I marvel at their candor in public. Not wanting to be perceived, I bury my face in my bagel and ignore the gathering clouds, gray with anticipation.
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