I Love New York
and especially the Manhattan Bridge: featuring an old poem, music, some drawings
Hello sweethearts,
Today, I am in love with this city. I have lived here for nearly 13 years. I turned 18 here, and slowly, over years, I became an adult here too. I have made new friends, quit jobs, fallen in and out of love, played in the snow, sweat through my clothes, bathed at the city’s public beaches, and witnessed New York and fellow New Yorkers in times of great tragedy and joy. I’ve worked in every borough, even if for only a day. Some years, I have wanted to leave, but I think that was because I didn’t know how to be with myself.
Last night, my family did a “creative share” via Zoom, a type of show and tell of something we have made recently. “Art” is a loose requirement, but it always ends up describing exactly what each of us has to offer.
My sister started, sharing a sketch she made of the N train on the Manhattan Bridge, where she was stuck for 30 minutes last night on her way back from work. It was hot and sticky but also beautiful. She saw couples taking wedding photos on the Brooklyn Bridge across the river. She was able to get her favorite seat. She had the classic New York moment of wanting deeply to be home already (please!) but simultaneously in awe of the city and all of the people hurtling in the sky alongside her.
As my sister was talking, I remembered a poem that I wrote in 2018, when I was commuting back and forth on that bridge as often as I could. It wasn’t the most convenient way to get to work, but it was the most romantic. I was newly in love again. Going out of my way to take the Q or B train and see the city was The Point.
“The Manhattan Bridge Is Where I Wake Up in the Morning and Go to Bed at Night” by me, hb
for Justin
The Manhattan Bridge is always full and bookended by darkness, like everything else, and I always watch it from the train, captivated. I don’t find enough time for ceremony these days— or flight. Like everyone else, I take what I can. We hurtle forward, up, down, and, if we’re lucky, without too much pause. We make it there eventually. Fade to black. We’re back. The prettiest two way mirror, the city changes / I change, minutely, magnificently. Don’t look away. To be sure I don’t miss it, I take a video of the bridge, the water, the city, the sky, the Statue, the cars, the trains on my cell phone. I wonder if anyone is looking over my shoulder, pretending to sleep. A week later in the window, your lucid face and mine confirm that this, too, is the poem. We hold hands, staring at the bright nighttime until we get to Brooklyn. Home. I will wake up next to you, as I have been for months. I will tell you my dreams, if they are worth saying out loud, and I will ride this bridge again the day after and wake up next to you the following. If you and I are lucky, we are inevitable, like the sunrise. Sunrise like the sound of whooshing cars and wind through your sill. Sunrise like “Saturday in the Park”. Everyday’s the Fourth of July. Saturday in the Park like babies and dogs and red wine. Red wine like East Village in the summertime. Summertime like Coney Island, Coney Island like mermaids, mermaids like Gowanus. I’ve always been hurtling here, but nothing is inevitable. I take the train downtown and look out at the bridge, sneak across the aisle to grab a window seat for my favorite view. It looks like me, it looks like you. We are the tiniest reflections among concrete stars. I count the constellations before the next stop. Infinite.
I also remembered this silly sketch I made for my friends’ zine: Zine about Work, from 2020. I also set this on the subway crossing the Manhattan Bridge. Check out the rest of the zine!
And because I am still in love with these two New Yorkers of the world, two tracks about New York from Juan Wauters and Frankie Cosmos and some other NYsongs I’ve loved over the years (including one by my friend JW Francis):
Well, now I’ve cried! And danced.
I loved this poignant snapshot of life in Flushing Corona Meadows Park on Codeswitch:
Lastly, a photo of my first NYson, Eric. I love you, my Queens baby. I miss you, mermaid prince.
Until next time, I love you.
— hb
I really appreciate your comment about previously wanting to leave NYC, but how you realized that you "didn’t know how to be with myself." I think that is a really powerful insight.
So lovely and beautiful. Thanks!