Perhaps I should start writing my blogs with a conscious recognition that there are a few who read this, as minuscule as the numbers may be. And no, I’m not being modest, because trusty ol’ WordPress has a built-in Stats tracker. It’s okay, I’m not going to pity myself. I pretty much abandoned this blog for around a month, which in this day and age is equivalent to around 50 years. Thus, it is understandable that people believe that I am done with dorsu.com.
I meant to write this entry two days ago, but I found myself in a tornado of catching up in a research project/paper that I’m *hopefully* co-authoring with one of my professors. But those specifics will be saved for another time. And if the plan falls through, it will most likely never be mentioned again, as it will probably be discretely swept away into the dark cracks and crevices; graveyard of all the goals that fell through.
I spent an entire day in Philly with Eric this past weekend. Although I had visited our original Capitol during high school, I could hardly remember anything about that city. Thus, it was a rather large shock for me when I stepped off the Chinatown bus. Uncomfortable, nervous, and weary were of the many scrambling feelings circulating my chest. It was not the fact that I was in a brand new city. Hell, I’m in brand new settings every single week in Manhattan. This unfamiliarity and foreignness was different, most likely due to the even greater disparity between the white hipsters and those who dress somewhat like hipsters, but not by choice. The smell of urine was stronger, the deserted streets were shadier, and the bar-filled downtown streets seemed even more juxtaposed to its rundown perpendicular avenues.
Despite how I have been describing our trip so far, Eric and I had an incredibly wonderful time. Although there are some out there who may put in their own dirty two cents, I am an American, and being in America’s [arguably] most historical city made me even more proud to be an American. Our visit to the National Constitution Center was my absolute favorite, especially due to its exhibit showcasing individuals who were denied their rights and freedom due to the color of their skin, and still chose to fight (and some die) for their country during WWII.
Anyway, I’m getting carried away with my description of my trip. That really was not meant to be the purpose of this entry. This is meant to be the purpose:
Upon returning to New York City around 11pm, exhausted and weary-eyed in the bus, it was the first time I felt the overwhelming relief, joy, and comfort of returning home. My first time actually “returning” to New York was just two weeks ago, but that was different. I was coming back to New York from my “home-home,” the house and city I had lived in for almost 15 years; I can’t compare California with New York. However, this was my first time leaving New York for a small trip to a somewhat distant and unfamiliar place. This was my first time going from the unfamiliar back to the familiar.
And that was the first and only real confirmation that I needed: New York is my home. The height of the buildings, the rainbow of people, even the dark, dirty alleyways–it’s my home, my familiarity, my life. And no matter how much longer or shorter I will live here, I know that I have permanently planted a part of my heart in this city. Home. I can’t stop repeating that to myself: New York City, my home.