We are not always going to feel 100% green-light “Go!” about making our dreams come true. Some leaps are just too large. You may not be ready for the whole shebang, the entire enchilada. It’s okay to take things in tiny bites. Ease your way up. You don’t have to be excruciatingly uncomfortable. Change may need to happen more gradually, digestion more slowly. Go easy on yourself. Moving to NYC was a bit more than I could chew at the time. So what? Taking a bite out of the Big Apple still moved me forward, and your little nibbles will, too.
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
More and more, I was relying on Celebration Magnifico excursions abroad to keep me sane. Life in the Big City was wearing on me, especially being regularly accosted by wackos and beggars. Before long, I began to recognize certain homeless people that consistently worked the same corner or subway line. One guy had a sign that said it honestly: “Save the winos!” Others rode the subway all day long collecting change in their five-gallon water jugs. Do I give them money or ignore them? The daily decision wore me down. Either choice made me feel bad; I couldn’t donate cash for everyone’s every request, but I felt guilty turning a deaf ear and a blind eye to their plight. I had a heart, which only compounded my charity confusion.
Adding to my predicament was the unfortunate fact that I was a weirdo magnet. I had “Come talk to me; I’ll listen.” written all over my approachable, gullible face. On the subway, one super drunk, homeless guy staggered over to me and spoke in his slurred and sloppy fashion, expelling his marinated breath in my face. Having learned that ignoring people isn’t always the best solution, I succinctly answered what I surmised he had asked. Satisfied, he went back to his seat across from me and promptly puked.
I was approached by so many kooks that I eventually developed my own “Midwestern Bumpkin’s Guide to Looking Invisible and Staying Safe in New York”:
- Don’t wear any clothes that might draw attention. Non-sexy, drab, cheap garments are best, preferably in black, brown, beige, or gray.
- Carry a purse that can not be easily cut, snatched, or opened and hold onto it for dear life while on the subway or street.
- Cover your eyes. Dark sunglasses are a must at all times so you can avoid eye contact.
- Plug up your ears. Carry a transportable music listening device with earphones so you can pretend that you didn’t hear the crazy guys ranting and raving (or begging) in your direction.
- Adopt an “I’m-a-tough-chick-in-a-hurry-so-don’t-mess-with-me” scowl.
It was hard for me to act so hardened and thick-skinned, not to mention wear ugly attire. I wanted to be able to smile and say hello to people as they walked by. But doing that got me into trouble. So there I’d sit on the subway, clutching my most impenetrable handbag with a death grip, while wearing a boring outfit and sensible shoes, donning earphones even when not listening to music, pretending to read a book, and sporting sunglasses in rain or shine. Feigning absorption in my own private world, I clearly signaled, “Nutcases NOT welcome here!”
My disguise of indifference certainly helped, but the hoards of people I encountered daily still overwhelmed me. Traveling for Celebration Magnifico was the most stressful, and I nearly freaked out from all the crowds of scary people, destitute people, and panhandling people at the Port Authority bus terminal. Or the throngs of people at JFK Airport pushing and shoving to claim their luggage from the conveyor belt or to hail a cab. It was a shove or be shoved world. You had to fight to claim your spot in The City, and I simply didn’t want to fight.
Central Park NYC, Fall 1987
My anxiety level was getting higher and higher. The thought of braving the crowds left me cowering in my apartment on several occasions. If I didn’t have to work, I sometimes stayed holed up at home for several days at a time. At other times, like a pregnant woman craves pickles and ice cream, I’d crave nature and space and would escape to Central Park to lose myself in trees, openness, and fresh air. I could see why New Yorkers tried to grow plants on any possible surface available, even a 12” by 6” ledge on their fire escape. I was becoming agoraphobic and claustrophobic in the city. To make matters worse, I felt trapped without a car. I needed to know I could get away from bricks and cement in favor of green grass and blue sky.
What was my problem? I knew that New York had so much to offer. You were absolutely spoiled for culture: food, shopping, art, music, dance, and, of course, some of the best theater in the world—BROADWAY! As a dancer, I could choose from a multitude of performance classes taught by incredible teachers. Nowhere else in the United States offered such comprehensive training. You could take a dance class any day of the week or all day long at a wide selection of phenomenal studios. Vocal coaching and all sorts of acting classes—straight theatre, musical theatre, commercial, soap, television and film, Shakespeare—were there for the choosing. It was the place to be for the stage performer.
But there’s so much more: You can walk everywhere in Manhattan. You can be inspired by some of the most incredible art in the world from its many art museums; eat virtually any type of ethnic food; be in Chinatown or Little Italy for a complete cultural change of scenery; nosh on the most delectable bagels in the world; stock your cupboards with the most glorious gourmet and deli food from Zabars, Dean & Deluca, and Balduccis; buy the best of whatever money can buy; see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the giant Christmas Tree Lighting at Rockefeller Center; wave your silly sign on the street for The Today Show. You can grab a meaty hotdog or sausage with spicy mustard, a salty soft pretzel, or steamy roasted chestnuts in the winter from a street vendor. New York can meet your every desire, right? What’s not to like?
Some people truly could not be happy anywhere else. They need the electric buzz of the City That Never Sleeps like they need that jolt of caffeine to wake them up in the morning. But I wasn’t one of those people. To me, daily living was becoming a struggle and a chore. Apartments didn’t come with washers and dryers, and I dreaded going to the laundromat. I waited until I was absolutely out of every shred of clothing before making the five block trek to the closest facility, grunting and dragging my two bulging suitcases all the way. Then I had to sit there for hours keeping guard over my precious, trendy clothes. It was always me and the fat, Italian mamas. Had I spoken Italian, I could have at least eavesdropped on their conversations to keep me occupied. Instead, I was stuck reading or watching my laundry spin around and around.
Grocery shopping was also annoying as the only grocery stores I could walk to were the small, overpriced, and understocked Greek markets, where, even if I could afford them, I could only buy what I could carry. I never really cooked anyway. It wasn’t like home where you could fill up a grocery cart with every food imaginable and stock the refrigerator and cupboard for weeks. I decided to stick with bagels and cream cheese.
If I needed home décor or furniture, I had to schlep all the way into Manhattan, because the Astoria stores were so limited. Then if by some miracle I happened to find something I could actually afford to purchase, I had to figure out how to get it home on the subway.
Meanwhile, from my apartment, a trip to Manhattan was about a forty-five minute endeavor on the subway and enough of a hassle that I didn’t want to go back and forth several times a day. I couldn’t afford to keep paying for extra subway tokens anyway. So whatever I needed at any moment of the day I had to carry with me every moment of the day.
A typical day in town might include ballet class, Mirmdance rehearsal, work at Joy of Movement, and drinks with friends. Or jazz dance class, scholarship receptionist work at Steps II, an audition, and a date. Consequently, my bag was often loaded with tap, jazz, character, and ballet shoes, two changes of leotards, work clothes, toiletries, a towel for showering, a book to read on down time, address book, hair dryer, curling iron, lunch, dinner, water bottle, portable music device, sweats, headshots, sheet music, and more. I was like a homeless person or a bag lady lugging nearly everything I owned, sweaty, smelly, and grimy from a day of dancing and trudging through Manhattan. If I had a hot date or plans to party with friends, I had to find somewhere to stash my substantially overstuffed satchel where no one would steal it. Such a suitable place was rare, so I usually had to haul it along. A dirty duffle is not the most attractive accessory when on a romantic rendezvous.
As if carrying around back-breaking baggage wasn’t unbearable enough, I couldn’t even make up for it by wearing a cute dress and high heels. I had to walk blocks in those shoes and perhaps run in them if someone questionable was following me. So I had to find comfortable, sensible walking shoes that didn’t look like Grannie’s orthopedics and dress down enough to minimize unwanted attention from strangers. Top this off with the fact that I was sweating from shouldering my thirty-pound dance bag for three miles, and I had exponentially decreased my sex appeal.
The most limiting factor of all was that if I wanted to go out at night I had to deal with walking to and from the subway in the dark by myself or taking a cab ride—about $15 one way to or from Manhattan, an expense I simply couldn’t afford on a regular basis. To be honest, I couldn’t really afford to go out in Manhattan period. It was all so expensive and such a hassle that I usually opted to stay home at night and be lonely.
Oh, I was all right when I was spending time with Jenny. On nights off in Astoria, we often ordered sesame noodles from our local Szechuan restaurant and watched a movie. But she had a boyfriend, family, and loads of childhood friends, so I didn’t have her to hang out with all the time. It wasn’t her job to babysit anyway.
I was particularly missing home early one morning as we rode the bus back from a Celebration Magnifico gig. It was three a.m.—perhaps the loneliest time of day—when we passed through smutty Times Square. (Remember when it used to be smutty?) I stared out the window, listening to Bruce Hornsby’s “Mandolin Rain” through my headphones, and witnessed my first real, live prostitutes in mini-mini-skirts and tragically high heels. It was the dead of winter, and I knew they must have been freezing cold. I was mesmerized at the sight of real hookers. They were obvious. I couldn’t imagine having sex with random, creepy strangers. Dancing with them was bad enough. I wondered if they felt lonely, too.
My stupor was interrupted by one of the metaphysical junkies sitting across from me. “Kristi, you are a star person.” “A what?” I responded trying to pry my eyes off the prostitutes. “A star person sent down from the heavens to lead the people,” she replied with cosmic authority. I didn’t know if that was true or not, but I wondered if I was cut out to be a star in New York or anywhere else.
You are a star. Don’t doubt it for a minute. Even if parts of your dream are tough to swallow. Take it in tidbits. Keep shining brightly and know you’ll reach your goals in divine timing. Not a second early. Not a second late. Thanks for reading.
Tip-toe on,
Kristi
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