De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

Today is my Nana’s birthday. She is 81. (Sorry Nana, I think this is something to be proud of…your flowers are on the way).

Nana has lived in the same house for over forty years. Various family members have repeatedly tried to get her to sell her home and move into a more manageable living arrangement. Not a nursing home, but a nice condo in one of those swanky retirement communities.

Nana will have none of it. She complains that all the women her age are “so old.” Instead of spending her time at the community center playing shuffleboard, she constantly finds new projects to improve the house. A year ago it was repaving the driveway, this summer it was installing new windows. She has raised children and grandchildren in her home, shared it with two husbands, and now various transient roommates whose rent supplement her income.

As I begin to pack up my life in Brooklyn, and commit to the full time quest of finding a new apartment, I must pause and reflect on my current home. There are real reasons why I’ve stayed here for five years, despite the cockroaches, rising rent, bad neighbors, and the cell phone tower that was just installed on our roof.

I dedicate this post to Nana. I think I finally understand why you never left. Routine is the act that protects our soul from the loss associated with profound and permanent change. It is far easier to repaint a wall or install a new shelf, or spruce up the couch with new pillows, than it is to uproot and throw yourself upon the great unknown. When a life has been tossed around a lot by sadness, having a “home” and a “neighborhood”, however imperfect, is a security blanket that makes the unexpected bearable.

These are a few of my favorites things about my life in Brooklyn:

The cubby hole in the wall for me to pile my shoes.

The cubby hole between the hallway and the bathroom that the cat box fits in so that it is neither in the bathroom or kitchen. Out of sight, out of mind.

The place in the living room for my dog to lay down between the radiator (to keep him warm) and the couch, so he is always close to me.

The place in the bedroom where my dog’s bed fits next to my bed so that he can look out the door and I can listen to him breath. Right before he falls asleep he will take one deep breath and exhale.

The color of my kitchen walls; bistro orange.

The stone tile I had put into the hallway.

The morning sun in the living room window that makes my plants grow.

Original white trim moldings offset against vivid colors on the walls.

The curtain I made to cover the ugly shelf in the hallway.

The coffee shop around the corner with free wireless access for my laptop. The fact that it is quiet enough for me to work, and that they know me so well, that I can leave my laptop there for a few minutes to go move my car.

The Cali-Mexican restaurant wallpapered with posters and bumper stickers from the Grateful Dead. I’m originally from Los Angeles, access to good guacamole is as necessary as a proper demitasse of espresso is to a Parisian.

And speaking of the French…the patisserie with little treats from France and Great Britain.

The video store, where they know me so well that they don’t even ask for my card before I rent movies.

Trees really do grow in Brooklyn, and so does the Farmer’s Market which happens most every weekend when it is warm enough outside.

My dog gets one very long walk a week, either on Saturday or Sunday morning, and usually I see several neighbors who know me by name and who are either walking their own dogs or pushing a stroller.

My building’s super lives on the first floor and walks my dog for me when I’m traveling. She’s right there in case he howls or needs anything.

And yes of course, that I can live in an apartment with my dog.

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This path is leading me somewhere out of my zone of safety. Change is necessary. Editing out the pieces that no longer work, refining myself and my life again to bring in a new regime. I know I need a new master. This one is not always just or merciful.

I got out of my shower and stared down at the tile floor. I remembered myself a year ago, collapsing against the tile wall after each shower because I was too exhausted to stand up and dry myself off. Working fourteen to eighteen hours a day for six days a week will do that to a body. That and being the trash bin for the ambitions, doubts and machinations of a different set of egos everyday.

Since then, I’ve been picking away at the tiny locks that chain me here and there. Another lock broken, another moment to be scared of a little more freedom before I’m ready. Freedom means more responsibility. And I’m use to being the dog: loyal, protective, and always understanding. Going against that good nature is not comfortable. What if it all collapses before a new answer is revealed.

I was almost fired two weeks ago from a show. I was told by my immediate boss that the producer said,” I was the worst person he had every worked with.”

Less than a week later, while working on another production and exerting one-fourth the effort I had put into the other show, the producers said that they couldn’t believe how good I was at the very same job.

Yesterday I sat in my therapist’s office and laughed at the utter stupidity of it all. Everyday I walk into a new production, and I never know if I am pariah or saint. Instead I do my job as quickly and efficiently as possible and keep my head down.

“There is nothing creative about what I do.” I confided. “There is nothing that I can point to and say I gave this to the world.” I wear “show black” head to toe so that if the camera turns in my direction that I do not stick out and ruin the shot. My job is to be invisible. If someone notices you then it usually isn’t to compliment you.

“Maybe the reason why you’ve clashed with certain personalities is that they don’t see you.” She continued, “You’re coming out of your shell and you’re not hiding anymore.”

An hour later I sat in my hair stylist’s barber chair. I started apologizing immediately for all of the frizz and snares that he’d have to deal with. In my line of work, taking responsibility or an apology before the fact, is a great way to offset the condemnations of the egomaniac du jour.

He stopped me, “Stop apologizing, you’re making me uncomfortable.” He laughed. “I’ve dealt with much worse. He then gave me the same lecture my cousin did two months earlier, “You shouldn’t hide under all this hair.” He pulled my hair down, it fell down to my waist. I didn’t know how long it was. I had been wearing a bun for the past two years.

He cut off four inches and gave me several layers. Suddenly my frizzy hair, had body and curl. “There you are gorgeous. Now take yourself out for the evening.”

It is time for me to turn into a princess. I can already hear the first sentence out of their mouths, “How could she be so ungrateful?

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Let me present the evidence:

My ATM card went missing. Still had the old one that I hadn’t cut up, but couldn’t find the new one that actually allowed me to withdraw cash.

This wouldn’t have been a problem except that I was working in New Jersey this week, and I only had $5.55 to pay the toll for the Holland Tunnel. The toll is $6.00.

Was asked to stay late on the job to make revisions for the client, when everyone else was wrapped and told to go home for the evening.

Therefore, I made it to a local bank branch at 5:38p.m. I frantically held up my ATM card to show the branch manager that I had a major problem. He neither opened his locked glass door, nor did he offer to issue me a temporary one that I could use in the ATM.

The local supermarket and Walgreens were both already closed. No chance for a cash back purchase.

Used mapquest to plot a trip back to the city via Staten Island to avoid a tie up on the Turnpike and traffic in downtown NYC.

End up in similiar gridlock in downtown Newark.

Feel like every lane, except the one I’m in, is moving. Started to take it personally.

Get lost with the directions given by mapquest, end up near Newark Airport.

End up going through the Holland Tunnel anyway.

Tell toll booth attendant, “Go ahead take a picture of my license plate. I lost my ATM card. Anticipate receiving a ticket in mail with a $30 surcharge on the $6 toll.

End up back home in Brooklyn at 8 p.m. and I can’t find a parking space to save my life. Cruise around neighborhood for a full 30 minutes before I end parking at 1st street and 7th avenue. I live at 5th avenue and 7th street at least a mile away.

I finally enter my apartment and I am overwhelmed by the smell of the cat box (I did that one to myself).

After I feed everyone, I attempt to fill the tub with hot water to soak an ingrown toe nail…nothing but luke warm water comes out of the faucet. Resign myself to the fact that my feet will just have to hurt.

Drink two glasses of milk and fall asleep before I realize I haven’t turn on my alarm.

Wake up an hour late.

It’s raining heavily, and traffic is once again tied up. Get soaked before I realize that I forgot my umbrella.

Make apologetic phone call to director, luckily everyone else is late because of the rain as well.

Thank my lucky stars for bad weather.

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I was slightly late for work on that day. This was my habit. It was a bad one, but my boss at the time, was a new mother. She rarely chastised me for what she couldn’t do either. The Path train into the city came every couple of minutes during rush hour. I knew I could get out of bed and be at my desk within the hour.

I came out of my connecting New York City Subway train and looked up into that crystal blue sky. A digital clock on the side of one of the skyscrapers read 9:05 a.m. My office was in midtown and few short blocks from Central Park, facing west. There was no view of the chaos taking place downtown. The streets were not extremely busy, no one was looking up at the sky and nothing said “you were just in incredible danger.” I was blissfully ignorant to the events taking place downtown.

On that day there were two path trains that connected to my stop: one to 33rd street, the other to the bowels of the World Trade Center. The World Trade Center train, came twice as much as the 33rd street train and if I was late, I would jump on it, and connect to my subway there. On September 11th, 2001, I decided to be just a little bit more late and wait for the 33rd street train.

I took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor expecting to play catch up with all the other assistant buyers who had already finished their weekly sales reports. Instead I walked in and everyone was hundled around one computer in the cubicle next to mine watching video stream from CNN. Obviously we never started work that day.

At first I called my grandmother in California, as an afterthought. I didn’t want her to think that my office was close to the towers. I had woken her up with my call. “Nana, don’t worry, I’m okay, they’re locking up the building, and I’m not downtown.” I called her again after the towers fell but the call was cut off, communcation and phone lines were beginning to falter.

Security locked up the building for our safety, no one was getting in or out. We were also listening to 1010 WINNS, the local am information station on the radio. Another plane had hit the Pentagon, and there were false reports about a bomb at the Supreme Court building.

At one p.m. all New Jersey residents were evacuated to a bus that was going to drive into Westchester to another bridge that crossed between New York and New Jersey. We all walked single file out the front door. This was the first time that I had to experience the confusion and chaos firsthand. The air was a little less clear and a distinct smell could be detected that would last for days. A sea of humanity was traveling on foot heading uptown trying to leave the city. Traffic was slowed to a crawl. All lanes had been diverted uptown as well. Hours before we had we had fought to make our daily migration into the city. Now we were just trying to find a way to get back home.

Those who lived in the city were also trying to decide where to go. One buyer decided to walk to St. Vincent’s hospital and donate blood. Another had reconnected with her husband and they were going to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge back home.

I sat in the bus next to my boss, clinging to her for comfort. She called her husband and made arrangements for us to be picked up on the other side of the bridge. The bus pulled out from it’s parking space and slowly meandered on to Third Avenue. As it turned left, I looked south toward downtown and saw the great cloud of grey smoke blackening out the sun and traveling toward Brooklyn.

I walked into the door of my Jersey City apartment, nine hours later, shaken but whole, and grateful that a random series of event had protected me. I was too shocked to breakdown or cry, instead, a knawing ache lodged itself into my chest and throat. What was going to happen now?

The attack on the World Trade Center has brought out the absolute best and worse in people. We all suited up and returned to work that Thursday. We listened to 1010 WINS and kept our bags packed incase we had to leave again quickly. Despite over 90, yes 90 bomb threats, and multiple closures at all three airports, we stayed our desk and continued on with our work. The opportunity that some would take advantage of this uncertainty, did not change our resolve to go about our lives. It seemed like the only thing we could do.

I was at a social meeting a few days later, my spirit had started to dampen as polarization began to take hold. I couldn’t respond when a woman said that she stood on her roof and watched the planes hit the towers. She wasn’t horrified like the rest of us. Instead she said that she understood why the terrorist had done it.

I looked around at the half empty room, wondering which one of my acquaintances wouldn’t be returning. Were they alive? Or did they just leave town? I couldn’t understand how this woman who had also sat with them as a friend could be so callous and full of hate. There would be a time for debate and discussion about US Foreign Policy, but this wasn’t it. I wish I would of had the strength to speak up and tell her to shut up, or at least to leave the room. Instead I sat quietly, waiting for someone else to have that courage. It didn’t happen. All of us were too shell shocked and numb.

This has been my world since that day. Although I’ve moved to Brooklyn, changed careers and had many more interesting experiences, there will always be a part of me who thinks back to that moment at 9:05 a.m. and wishes that sense of wonder and innocence about my life in New York would return.

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Her phone call came around 5 p.m.

I was sitting in the auditorium at Radio City Music Hall during a rehearsal for yet another two hour television special when my Treo lit up. I looked at my caller i.d. and didn’t recognize the number.

I answered the phone, “Hello.”

“Is this S___ R___?” Her voice was excited.

“This is her” I replied, “Who is this?”

“Do you remember someone by the name of Kimber?”

“From high school?” My voice stuttered in disbelief. It had been fourteen years since I graduated high school and left my father’s house for college. I never turned back. Here on the phone was the best friend I had lost touch with, who still lived in the same town.

“Your grandmother gave me your number.” She continued. “I was going through all of the letters we wrote each other. You wrote her number on the back of one of the envelopes”

“I always spent the summers at her house. I can’t believe it.” I was floored. Unlike most members of my family, my grandmother always kept tabs on me, and knew where I was currently living.

I was suddenly fifteen again and talking to the one person who knew all of my secrets. We quickly started where our friendship had left off as if not a day had gone by.

“I found a clipping from a magazine in your letter as well” She continued “It said the inevitable future is closer than you think.”

I chuckled and said,”What do you think I meant by that?”
“I think we were both just focused on our glorious futures and getting out of our miserable lives.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Kimber and I had created many imaginary stories and worlds we could live in that soothed the continuous wounds of adolescence.

“When I talked to your grandmother she told me that you lived in New York. She told me about all the celebrities you are working with. I had to find out what this was all about.”

“Oh…you know how grandmothers are. They tend to make their kid’s accomplishments seem much grander than they actually are.” I quickly retorted. It was the truth. Although I worked in the media industry, I’m one of those faceless technicians that made the production chain purr for those in front of the camera.

“You kept my letters.” I was overwhelmed.

“I kept everything we ever wrote each other.” Her voice cracked. “I was rereading them and I just remembered how much you meant to me. I don’t know why I stopped writing. I had just figured that you needed space to start your own life.” She said with regret.

She spoke the truth. I had left it all with the intension of cutting the past and everyone associated with it loose. I felt profound compassion for us both. We had been young, bitchy and insecure. We wanted nothing more than to connect with one another, yet we were unable to reach out and say the things that would have prevented our misunderstanding.

We talked throughout my dinner break and then we talked again the next day and the next. It is as if I see myself in her and her in me. More to come. This is just one of several new beginnings.

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