Wednesday, August 3, 2011

New York has broken me

You could call me an "emotional chick". My father does.

I cry at (almost) everything. In fact, there's no way I can get through an episode of Grey's Anatomy without announcing to my roommate "I'm crying now" so we don't have to sit there in awkward silence while I try to discretely blow my nose and wipe my eyes.

The sweetest sentiment can move me to tears. From a thoughtful comment by one of my girls to a "this made me think of you" trinket from my mother, tears are likely to bubble up quickly.

With good news comes tears of joy. And goodbyes? Fuggetaboutit.

But I'm writing this post because I'm convinced that living in New York, this beloved city, has broken me.


I cry for them. The people we all so often come face to face with, begging for money with a song, a baby, an apology for the inconvenience.

And when I hear the familiar sounds of a song I was raised on, I find myself tearing up, reaching for my wallet, and giving anything I can afford to give.

A blind man gets on your Astoria-bound N train with a beautiful, broad smile and starts serenading you. When he graciously thanks the man across from me who caught him as the train swerved and he couldn't see to find the pole to steady himself. And I find myself tearing up at the tragic scene, a happy, homeless man singing "What a Wonderful World" with nuances of Louis Armstrong - well, I'm convinced you do anything you can to make his song a reality.

Perhaps this is the naivety of a girl raised in the suburbs of Boston... But my parents raised me well. And I know good music when I hear it.

Written on my iPhone

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