Be the Brooklyn you Want to See

The other morning on my power walk, I veered off of the loop that I do most of the time, because I had that itch – you know the one – where you need to see something different and beautiful. Something that reminds you that the world is full of treasures that are hiding in plain sight – all that you have to do is to make a left turn where you’d usually make a right and BOOM! Beauty.

My eyes were peeled for some cool street art, or an interaction between two people that I didn’t know, doing something interesting, that was none of my freaking business. I turned a corner, and there it was – under a sky full of cotton candy clouds flecked with the gold of the rising sun, a tag that said Brooklyn. It was exactly the kind of loveliness I was hoping to catch this morning – then something interesting happened: I exhaled and whispered the word home.

When I first moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn from Long Island (a whole 15 miles away, mind you) a little over 10 years ago, I never thought that Brooklyn would be my home.  I wasn’t cool enough for Brooklyn.  I knew that, the girls that I moved in with from Craigslist knew that, and I am pretty sure that if the Bandit wine from a box could have spoken it would have told me that too.  But, I didn’t move – I had friends here, I loved the neighborhood, and my rent was $600 a month – I couldn’t leave!

As time went on, I moved in with the women who would become my best friends, ate so much pizza, changed apartments, got run over by a truck (natch – it was all of the rage in the mid-2000’s), broke someones heart, started drinking wine out of bottles, changed jobs, fell in love, moved into my own place, got my heart broken, kissed a ton of strangers (including enough people in the service industry that I had to find all new bars and restaurants in the neighborhood), wrote a book and yet, even after all of that, I still didn’t feel like Brooklyn was my home.  In my mind, home was still in that house on a quiet street in Manhasset where I learned to ride my bike, took my prom pictures in front of the fireplace and played running bases in the backyard.

Then, my parents, in their infinite selfishness, decided that they wanted to take care of themselves for the first time in about 35 years, and sell the house that was always home to me, and retire in Vermont.  I am going to be totally transparent with you all, I did not handle it well. (My mom is reading this section right now and nodding her head vigorously) There was an ungodly amount of crying, and if I remember correctly a little bit of dry heaving. I am a very rational and reasonable person when it comes to change. (Again, my mom is reading this, and shaking her head vigorously – but in the NO direction).

I had one of these emotional outbursts while out for drinks with my best friend (and former roommate) Leah, and she was understanding and comforting but also gifted me with some advice: Why don’t you see this as an opportunity? This is the chance to make Brooklyn your home. Like really your home.  Build a community, make it yours.” Sure easy for her to say with her adorable blonde pixie cut, and cool kid cred (former actor, director, knower of all bartenders and restaurant owners in a 5 mile radius) But I took what she said to heart.  I didn’t pick my Manhasset home, but I did pick Williamsburg – why didn’t I start becoming a real part of the community? Give back, put down roots, be intentional about the way that I interacted with my neighbors – be the Brooklyn I wanted to see.

I stopped worrying about whether or not I was cool enough for my neighborhood, and just started being myself. I smiled at everyone I met on the street, I made cookies for my neighbors during Christmas, I shopped locally, asked people their names, drank and read books by myself at bars, I over tipped. I delighted in the silvers of beauty that were presented to me if I looked hard enough. I fell in love with a boy, and we moved in together, I helped to carry strollers up and down the subway stairs, I shoveled sidewalks, learned how to speak conversational Italian so I could say hello to my old school neighbors on their stoops in the summer while I ate my rainbow ice, and in the midst of doing all of these things, I found myself. This little community I built was the home I had I never knew I wanted. I was the Brooklynite I had always hoped to be.

I was home.

Author: smallbitesandlittlevictories

Writer. Life Coach. Professional Speaker. Aggressive Chaser of Joy. Sandwich Lover. View all posts by smallbitesandlittlevictories