Living in the Kingdom

I just read two articles that labeled Brooklyn as the second most expensive U.S. city to live in, with Manhattan as the unsurprising first. Wow. And here I am, a part time music teacher from Wisconsin. Definitely one of those "What am I doing here?" moments.

The articles painted an unsettling picture of an increasingly divided borough with alarming statistics of income, cost of living, and levels of education. A third article gave a number of bizarre statistics (who really cares if a few jars of horseradish cost $74?) which were all designed to prove a point: the cost of living is skyrocketing in Brooklyn and the lower and middle classes aren't even on the shuttle.

For the last few months Tomm and I have been throwing around the idea of leaving our neighborhood and finding an area more closely resembling our...shall we say...demographic. Also something within 3 miles of a shul I cam stomach. But every time I ask Brooklynites about the preferable neighborhoods like Park Slope, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, and even Crown Heights, they all tell me the same thing: it's expensive and often prohibitively so. I suppose there's a reason they're preferable, though such news makes Boro Park look better and better.

So after being told time and again about how expensive it is to live here, I wasn't entirely surprised by those articles. Still, what was surprising was the disparity which is growing throughout the borough. I suppose, though, that in a world where the 85 wealthiest people have more combined wealth than half of the global population, I should not be shocked that the second most expensive city is also home to massive poverty and exceptionally low reading levels. That seems to be how the world works these days. In fact, I commented to the person who posted the aforementioned articles on Facebook that it's as if Brooklyn is a microcosm of the current global economic trends.

It's scary to know I'm living somewhere where, if I were on my own, I could never survive. It also makes me wonder why someone would ever go to New York to "try and make it big" like all those jazzy musicals about flappers would have you believe. I find it hard to justify spending so much money on rent alone, not to mention food, clothes, and other necessities.  This is probably just me being a Midwesterner, but aren't there more important things in life than spending thousands of dollars a month on a one-bedroom apartment, even if it is only a block away from the coolest bars and a giant park?

Thanks, but I think I'll just take the train.

Open Mic Night at the Tea Lounge

From the outside, it resembles any of the other establishments in Park Slope with its unspoken air of haughty snobbery. It's surrounded on all sides by yoga, sushi, and a food co-op. It's easy to pass by unless you know what you're looking for, with the exception of one innocuous piece of furniture by the entrance: the backseat of an old van where a bearded man sits smoking a cigarette. The sound of indie beats creeps under the crooked door which gives way to a nonconformist's wet dream. Subdued lighting obscures the individuals while highlighting the MacBooks, their emblazoned apples dotting the room like fireflies.

Tonight we are infiltrating a world to which we don't belong. Let's hope we go unnoticed so we can sip our Darjeeling and hot cocoa in peace.

It is a tea house/bar/cafe/artist's haven. On this particular night they are having an open mic and everyone has turned up to hear the singers and comedians perform. Scarves, knitted hats, and unnatural hair color fill the room like nametags at a hipster's convention. The attendees are mostly people in their 20s and 30s, plus a couple token old men who wish they were. Long-haired hippies and modern philosophers, feminists and people with a cause, vegans and vegetarians and the gluten free by choice, and a few straight-laced polo-wearing guys who are here to get their piece of the grungy homemade experience they can't get in pristine Park Slope. And us.

Each wall is a different color, as if every time they had to repaint they only had enough for one can of whatever color was on clearance. The floor is uneven and unfinished, and the furniture makes it look like the sofa section of St. Vincent de Paul's. Somehow, underground Bedouin chic works for this place and the people lounging on every available cushion.

First up: classical Spanish guitar meets Snoop Dogg. It's a Latino with a sweet voice and a classical guitar singing Nelly mashups.

Between acts: "What's your favorite sport?" asks the MC. "Meditation" yells the girl next to me.

Next act: a small, uncertain Asian man standing at the mic with an iPod and an iPad. He sings a song about the subway that makes you wonder if you should laugh at the candor or listen in silent admiration at his belting bluesy voice with the telltale accent of a reformed Midwestern. Sure enough, he's from Ohio.

Third: middle aged man with a turtle neck and Dockers, singing about online dating.

Fourth: a guy approaches the mic with a mbira. Singing and playing thumb piano. Pretty cool, actually. Impressive. Next song he gets a little more traditional with a folk guitar.

In between each set the MC works his comedy on the apathetic crowd. I begin to wonder if laughter is too mainstream. At some point he starts speaking solely to the few people sitting immediately stageside.

Next up: keys and drums duo where the sound feels a little too big for the space and I can't be sure the two are entirely in sync. But they're having fun and it reminds me of the jam sessions I used to have with an amateur band in Israel. Not meant for anyone's pleasure but their own, and in a space like this that's ok.

Sixth: a vocal duo comprised of a black guy wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting winter hat, a busty white girl with thick-rimmed glasses, and one beautiful blend of voices serenading the diminishing crowd.

Seventh: the hip hop freestyler wearing a button up shirt and tie with a black scarf draped around his neck.

Number eight: Jamaican hip hop artist trying to infuse a little more excitement in the room than we have, but we go along with it.

Nine: a bald man who reminds me of James Taylor with folksy lyrics, an easy voice, and six steel strings. A far cry from the performer who proceeded him but a change of pace that feels normal in this hodgepodge home of rebels and dreamers.

Last: like the last performer, but 20 years younger with a sound 20 years newer.

The one thing each performer has in common is the complete and total honesty with which they approach the stage, ready and willing to share their passion with a roomful of critical strangers. This open mic is bringing out some impressive talent - timid people with big voices and big dreams, probably confined in their own lives until they get to the microphone and set their voices free.

As for the audience, I know I'm being harsh on this crowd of strangers, but it really is fascinating to observe this particular side of Brooklyn in a large group. The fact of the matter is, though, Tomm and I are probably not as far removed from them as we'd like to make ourselves believe.

The Countdown

In the wee hours of December 16th, it occurs to me that my wedding is now less than two weeks away.  In 13 days, 12 hours, and 15 minutes (less by the time I finish writing this), I will be standing under the  chuppah with at least three rabbis and the man who will be my husband.

For as momentous an occasion as this is, the weeks leading up to it have their own events and related stress.  Today I performed in a Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra concert.  This week I have three nights of elementary school concerts, then we're flying back to the Midwest for a week with our families and some last minute wedding prep.  With everything else going on it's almost hard to remember how big of a deal this really is.

13 days, 12 hours, 9 minutes.

I've already told a handful of classes at school that when we return from our winter break in January they will be calling me by a new name.  The youngest ones are excitedly trying out the new name, seeing how it feels on their tongue and proving to themselves they can remember what I've told them.  The older students - girls in particular - understand what the name change means and have also started calling me by the name I won't officially use for another 13 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes (or so). It makes me smile every time.

I can't really figure out why I'm writing this at...[checking clock]...1:06 in the morning.  Maybe it's just a way of telling myself that there's a reason I can't fall asleep.  Or maybe I'm just awake enough to be thinking of everything that has to get done but too tired to coherently do anything about it.  Whatever the case, the fact remains:

I'm getting married.

This is happening.

13 days, 12 hours.

The Optimism Challenge

A few weeks ago I found myself in the stressful and emotionally tumultuous trifecta that is school concert preparation, wedding planning, and not seeing enough of my fiance.  It seemed that everything had to be done right now! and if I couldn't get it done then surely entropy would ensue and the world would be over as we know it. Such stress was not uncommon for me, but this time it manifested itself in a single sentence, repeated mantra-like every time I stepped on the train, crossed unnoticed through bustling crowds, or dealt with indifferent and outright rude sales clerks:  I hate New York.

Most of my life has been regularly punctuated by these moments of severe stress nestled uncomfortably between moments of slightly less severe stress.  In fact, I distinctly remember a moment in elementary school (5th grade, to be precise) when I found myself stressed and unable to fall asleep well past midnight, trying to convince my parents that maybe I should call my classroom teacher so she could assuage my fears about whatever homework assignment or project was at hand.

I was a special child.

I was also never good at transitions.  The first year of junior high, freshman year of high school, and freshman year of college all featured extreme emotional instability that made it hard for me to cope with anything life had to offer.  I am forever indebted to the people who were closest to me during those years, and I suspect karma will make me pay for that some day.  Big time.

I always strove for success, though, and my need to be a scholastic perfectionist was only strengthened during my periods of self doubt.  I suppose I figured that if I could do well in school, it would be proof for everyone else that at least some of my stress was valid.  "See?" I could say to my parents, "I worked like crazy to get that A!  And if I hadn't worked that hard I definitely would've gotten an A-."

Like I said: special.

So with this insight into my neurotic need for perfection and my utter inability to manage major changes in my life, it is no surprise that from the moment I moved to New York I have been off-balance, and when I found myself surrounded by every obligation in the world a few weeks ago, I lost it.

And Tomm, the saint who for whatever reason will be publicly promising in less than four weeks to put up with this the rest of his life, finally called me out on it.

In no uncertain terms and with a good dose of tough love, he helped me realize that I needed to find a way to stop this vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and discontent with everything around me.  I needed to pull it together and change something since New York was not going to change itself for me.  I was hurting - everyone could see it - and it simply wasn't healthy for me.

I thought a lot about what he said, and I instinctively knew he was right.  Just as in every other juncture in my life I had a choice about how to respond to it, and now was the moment of truth: How would I learn to love (or at the very least tolerate) a city I never imagined I'd call "home?"

I was reminded of when I was still in grade school and my mom introduced a new family bonding strategy at dinner.  Every night she would ask us "What is the best thing that happened to you today?"  My younger sister and I, being the sullen teenagers that we were, often rolled our eyes but we always found a response.  Sometimes it was "I did well on a test." Sometimes it was "I came home."  But whether we knew it or not, my mom's trick worked and slowly changed the tone of dinner; we began to look on the bright side a little more often.

The day after my stern talking-to from Tomm, I told him I'd like him to do me a favor.  "Every day, I'd like you to ask me: 'What was the best thing that happened to you in New York today?'  I want to start focusing on the good things about New York, and I need your help."

As the days went by, he was faithful to my request.  Most days my best part of New York was a kind stranger on the train, but even such a minor detail made a big difference in my outlook the moment I focused on it.  Suddenly, I noticed my attitude changing.  Instead of blindly muttering "I hate New York I hate New York I hate New York" in rhythmic unison with the train clattering over the tracks, I heard the toddler singing children's songs with his mom in a seat nearby. I saw the disgruntled teenager hold the door open for the old man.  I became more and more aware of the good people, the kindness that had previously been missing from my sights. 

There are still moments when some New York experience grates on my nerves, but it's a work in progress and that's okay.  In the meantime, I'm changing how I see this city, and it seems to be responding in kind.

Cold, Cold, Go Away

It has been over two weeks since I last wrote, and that's at least a week too long.  I have wanted to, though, numerous times, and I have a slew of barely-begun-but-ready-to-edit blog posts to prove it.  Lots of interesting things have happened, things that I want to discuss and share, but gosh darnit I'm just too tired.

Right after Halloween (specifically, after singing a rousing and vocally challenging Halloween song with six consecutive classes in one day), I began feeling that I was either losing my voice or getting a cold.  It turned out to be a cold. I thought it was on its way out until it came around to throw a few more punches, not unlike the character in a movie who walks away from the fight only to whip around and deck the other guy in a surprise attack.  It hasn't been all bad, though.  There have been a few positive outcomes of this unshakable indisposition:

1. My Contigo travel mug is the new love of my life, and one of very few products I will recommend with the zeal of a street preacher.  Thanks to this, my tea stays warm through a train ride, a walk to school, and about five periods of teaching.  If the tea lasts that long, that is.

2. I am incredibly thankful to my mom's friend who gave me the tea kettle for my wedding shower.  It's easily the single most-used utensil in the kitchen right now.

3. I have been so tired that I've gone to bed at or before 9:00 pm at least four times in the last week, and it's glorious.

4. Thanks to this cold, I have perfected my impression of a 67-year-old man with smoker's lung. It's spot on.  In fact, I think when I'm home for Thanksgiving I should stage a competition with our aging neighbor who thus far has gone unchallenged in the Hocking-Loogies-From-The-Balcony-While-Shirtless event.

It's really the fatigue that gets me, though.  I can live with the phlegm and the sore throat, so long as I have my Contigo to keep me company.  I can live with the sniffling nose and even the occasional mild headache.  But when I have so many things to do, - planning a wedding which is just over a month away, planning a school's winter show which is less than a month away, plus everything else that's part of my daily or weekly routines - feeling unable to do any ounce of work past 6:30 pm doesn't help my stress level.  Thankfully, most of the wedding planning is taken care of at this point.

The other byproduct of this fatigue is not being able to write.  For some reason, I can't sit down and write a creative, coherent, or remotely interesting blog post when I can feel the need for sleep creeping in behind my eyes.  It becomes impossible to concentrate or write freely, even when I have accomplished all my other tasks for the day and have a few hours free.

I hope that when things die down a little and when this cold finally frees me of its burden, I'll be able to write a little more.  Until then, tea and sleep will be my extracurriculars of choice.