Thanks, Ryan Adams

“Hell, I still love you, New York.” – Ryan Adams

“Do you love New York?”

“Do you love New York more than Texas?”

“Are you ever coming back?”

First thing is first. New York and I have a strange, and perhaps lasting relationship. Unlike most lasting relationships I’ve had with people, my connection to NY wasn’t instantaneous. New York was always a place I liked visiting, but I think it bears mentioning that I love Texas. I was never the type of person who hated where they were from; in fact, I love where I am from and let me tell you why:

New York takes away your specialness.

Slow your roll, people. Let me make my point before I get hate messages about how wrong I am. My students always tell me that I can’t tell everyone that they are special, because if everyone is special, then no one is. In the City that Never Sleeps, everyone is special, and therefore no one is. It’s simple supply and demand. You have a higher degree? So do all your friends, and your waitress. Oh, you can play an instrument? My friend so-and-so can play three. You think it’s impressive that you can speak four languages? So can your cab driver.

My point is this: in this particular Petri dish, the competition is fierce. And I cannot figure out for the life of me how people manage to grow huge egos in this city. I trip eight times a day on the street which keeps me sufficiently humble. I have gotten lost above ground more times than I can count. I have gone the wrong way on the subway only to end up in Queens. Yes, these are the things that keep you human.

But the more important other side of this coin is that everyone is special. Everyone is interesting, funny, clever, intelligent, progressive, determined, seeking, tenacious, poetic, artistic, and hungry. The thing to remember is that if you made it this far, someone and some other place helped you get there.

You are special because of where you come from.

Someone put you in piano lessons. Someone bought you a drum set. Someone told you that you were clever enough to make it in comedy, let you buy fashion magazines so that you could one day make it to Parsons, gave you an A on a paper so that you could have the confidence to try your hand at being a writer, or put Legos under the tree so that you could build mini versions of the buildings you would one day derive from pure imagination.

Do I love New York more than Texas? It’s not a qualifying question. It’s not even a legitimate question. You may find yourself divided. But the thing I am figuring out is that you don’t have to be. I love both places because one raised me and one raised me up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever move back to Texas. I try not to speak in absolutes, because I am only absolutely sure that I am a horrible fortune teller. I live in a pretty small corner of the universe (contrary to most New Yorkers’ belief) and most of the day to day stuff that I worry about doesn’t matter that much. Most of the stuff that does always has. And whether you’re an hour ahead or an hour behind, that’s probably true for you, as well.