I’m not really a sentimental sort of person. I’ve moved homes too many times to feel too attached. This morning, though when I got off the R train at 8th street and found myself downtown, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.
Perhaps it’s because I’m traveling alone. Last Spring, Bruno came along.
His company meant experiencing the city from his perspective, and not having a moment to reflect, or indulge, in what’s familiar about the Big Apple for me.
In my old hood, I paused to read the same advertisement I read, more than 20 years ago.
The only difference is that now in 2015, an English translation is included.
I was 23 years old when I moved to New York. I had one singular dream, and I was as my husband describes me now, very unafraid. There was a moment of fear, when money I had worked so hard for was consumed so quickly, because New York was, and still is, expensive. I called my mother from the pay phone right around this subway stop. My mother said- Go Live Your Dream.
At MOMA today, I found the painting that once comforted me.
I had to catch my breath, re-compose myself. Nostalgia is too swift a tide, tugging.
I used to hide out at MOMA- rest here, in front of Matisse. New York was hard, hard work. There were days I honestly could not feel my legs. And that sort of fatigue sometimes, made me, sad.
But always this painting- about dance, about life, about celebration and linked arms, gave me the courage to go on, go on.
I want to always be like my 23-year old self, so fearless and convinced. If there is something I could say to her now, I would say, Tammy, you’re not going to believe, what happens next.