There, under the dark and moonless sky, with the wind whipping strands of hair into my face and the motor churning steadily beneath my feet, I began to cry.
I remembered when I was eight or nine or ten, that summer that I had my first ever taste of New York. I rode the Staten Island ferry and stood in that very same spot. It was daytime then, and I was so excited to see the Statue of Liberty and to watch tiny Manhattan turn into towering Manhattan. It was the first time I'd ever been on a ferry boat too. I remember loving that boat and that ride and that vacation, but feeling very much that something was missing.
I had a wonderful day today, traveled through four of the five boroughs with fluffy skirts, tassel belts, a giant suitcase, and a video camera. In Greenpoint, Brooklyn I visited the Chief Squirrel's apartment and met her crazy jumping bean of a dog. In Flushing, Queens, I saw (and recorded for posterity) some really amazing belly dancers, including most of the Squirrel Girls. In Staten Island I visited Banghra Squirrel's house (which is large and sprawling), ate what is purported to be the best pizza in New York, then accompanied the Squirrel Girls to a gig at a weird hippie bookstore. Then all except Banghra climbed onto the ferry for a ride into Manhattan, every one of us exhausted from a long, pleasant day.
The crying started when I saw the Statue. I thought suddenly about that family vacation and how something was missing. I realized that it was my dad. My dad wasn't there with us, climbing up the spiral stairs through that green copper oven in the intense July heat. He wasn't there on the observation deck of the World Trade Center to point out the cool stuff you could see. He wasn't there to ask if I wanted to go to Yankee Stadium too (my sister got to go with my cousins, but I was left behind). He wasn't there to pull me out of the salty undertow when we went swimming on the Jersey Shore. He wasn't there when I had my first taxicab ride or to hold my hand to keep me from getting lost in the crowds in Midtown.
Here's the hardest part: that vacation is the best family vacation I can remember...because I cannot remember a single vacation with my dad.
I closed my eyes to try and squeeze away the tears that wouldn't stop silently streaming down my face. And I felt the wind and listened to the ferry churning beneath me. My mind flickered over to New Orleans, where I used to ride the ferry across the Mississippi River with JH. And how I taught myself to knit on that ferry. And how much I loved riding that ferry into the French Quarter to look for a job and then later to go to a job and then, after I moved to the East bank, just for fun. I missed New Orleans. I missed JH and how he loved that ferry too, and for the same reasons that I did. And then I started crying again for the loss of his friendship, and a little because I was angry at myself for missing him.
When I opened my eyes Manhattan was monolithic, looming ahead. It pressed closer and closer, like New York City was about to swallow me up, ferry and all. The tears did not stop streaming because it made me think about how I used to feel about New York before I got here. I used to think of New York as a doorway to a life of excitement and fulfillment. I used to think that New York would answer all my prayers and let me achieve all my dreams. I used to think New York was where I would really come into my own as a person.
I cried harder. Because all of those things are sort of true...but I never realized that those things could be true and that I could still feel so small and alone.
I remembered when I was eight or nine or ten, that summer that I had my first ever taste of New York. I rode the Staten Island ferry and stood in that very same spot. It was daytime then, and I was so excited to see the Statue of Liberty and to watch tiny Manhattan turn into towering Manhattan. It was the first time I'd ever been on a ferry boat too. I remember loving that boat and that ride and that vacation, but feeling very much that something was missing.
I had a wonderful day today, traveled through four of the five boroughs with fluffy skirts, tassel belts, a giant suitcase, and a video camera. In Greenpoint, Brooklyn I visited the Chief Squirrel's apartment and met her crazy jumping bean of a dog. In Flushing, Queens, I saw (and recorded for posterity) some really amazing belly dancers, including most of the Squirrel Girls. In Staten Island I visited Banghra Squirrel's house (which is large and sprawling), ate what is purported to be the best pizza in New York, then accompanied the Squirrel Girls to a gig at a weird hippie bookstore. Then all except Banghra climbed onto the ferry for a ride into Manhattan, every one of us exhausted from a long, pleasant day.
The crying started when I saw the Statue. I thought suddenly about that family vacation and how something was missing. I realized that it was my dad. My dad wasn't there with us, climbing up the spiral stairs through that green copper oven in the intense July heat. He wasn't there on the observation deck of the World Trade Center to point out the cool stuff you could see. He wasn't there to ask if I wanted to go to Yankee Stadium too (my sister got to go with my cousins, but I was left behind). He wasn't there to pull me out of the salty undertow when we went swimming on the Jersey Shore. He wasn't there when I had my first taxicab ride or to hold my hand to keep me from getting lost in the crowds in Midtown.
Here's the hardest part: that vacation is the best family vacation I can remember...because I cannot remember a single vacation with my dad.
I closed my eyes to try and squeeze away the tears that wouldn't stop silently streaming down my face. And I felt the wind and listened to the ferry churning beneath me. My mind flickered over to New Orleans, where I used to ride the ferry across the Mississippi River with JH. And how I taught myself to knit on that ferry. And how much I loved riding that ferry into the French Quarter to look for a job and then later to go to a job and then, after I moved to the East bank, just for fun. I missed New Orleans. I missed JH and how he loved that ferry too, and for the same reasons that I did. And then I started crying again for the loss of his friendship, and a little because I was angry at myself for missing him.
When I opened my eyes Manhattan was monolithic, looming ahead. It pressed closer and closer, like New York City was about to swallow me up, ferry and all. The tears did not stop streaming because it made me think about how I used to feel about New York before I got here. I used to think of New York as a doorway to a life of excitement and fulfillment. I used to think that New York would answer all my prayers and let me achieve all my dreams. I used to think New York was where I would really come into my own as a person.
I cried harder. Because all of those things are sort of true...but I never realized that those things could be true and that I could still feel so small and alone.
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