That feeling of being born in the wrong era is commonly shared on this platform. People longingly attempting to capture an internet-free lifestyle of tapered candles, library books, and records while posting the entire experience on their social media channel du jour.
Le Wrong Generation
Mommy in her twenties looking sessy.
In my late teens and twenties, I was fascinated by the disco era. My sister born in the early 70s would share stories with me about Mommy’s nights out. And how one time, while Mommy and her friends were putting final touches on winged eyeliner, she dipped a joint in grape juice to see what would happen.
For many of us, trying to move out of our hometowns feels as impossible as trying to go back in time.
Just two Queens Kids at thirteen visiting Bear Mountain.
I started going out to clubs at fifteen, meeting my friend Lamar at his job at the McDonald’s in Times Square and then heading to a nearby spot using fake IDs. Before that, at thirteen, I’d sleepover my friend Gabriella’s house and her older brother and his friend would take us to Omonia, a Greek café in Astoria, that stayed open until 2am where we’d talk about boys and sip frappés. I was a good kid with a developed bull-shit meter so I mostly stayed out of trouble. But I did so idolize the music and dresses and the glamour of disco. It wasn’t until my thirties that I realized, I would have never survived that era. Yes, maybe I would have danced at Studio 54 like my father did, but maybe I would have also come out of it with a coke habit.
Le Wrong City
These same considerations pop up when we consider where we grew up and where we want to live. For many of us, trying to move out of our hometowns and cities feels as impossible as trying to go back in time. Living in New York City IS extraordinarily difficult. Most of us contend with rising costs of living, underfunded public programs, tiny spaces, and oh the rats but the pandemic was really what sent many of my high school friends to Florida, Texas, New Jersey. Some of those uprooted New Yorkers are happy with their decision to move; some are miserable.
I have written lovingly about my borough here so far, but man sometimes I just want to punch it in its face and bounce. The amount of dicks I’ve involuntarily seen; the insane disparity of wealth where four miles from my home is the most expensive listing in the US; the underfunded schools; the fucking train. I would like to say its the diversity, the culture, much of it which can be enjoyed for free, that keeps me here, and that’s partially it, but the real reasons why are:
proximity to family
career advancement.
NYC transplants are always stunned when I say I grew up here. “I could never imagine raising children here,” they say, disregarding the fact that there are nearly 2 million kids under 18 in the five boroughs. And though it may feel like many New Yorkers have moved away, over 5 million are still here so I know I’m not only one doing a leave/stay cost benefit analysis.
Many of us kids turned adults in our big city hometown, have done the math. We’ve calculated the cost of cars it would take to live in a place without public transportation; the childcare; the loss of job opportunities. My husband and I have done the math over and over again, especially in times when this city is being an asshole. There’s the financial aspect mentioned and then there’s the emotional. We’d miss our family.
Writing to fall in love again
The George Gee Swing Orchestra on the evening of the first day of school.
This brings me to why this Queens Kid thing came about. Instead of wallowing on Zillow, I wanted to reconnect with this place that raised me and is raising my kids. Yes, I can complain about the intensity that comes with living here but I don’t want to fall into a cycle of disillusionment. It’s not the healthiest sentiment to bring up kids around. The reality, is that no matter where we live, the here and now can suck for many people. And like watching the sun set over Astoria Park while a jazz band plays off in the distance, it can also be brilliant.