My first semester at NYU I went home almost every weekend, no matter the situation. College of Arts and Sciences had no classes on Fridays so I would either hop on the bus Thursday evening or first thing Friday morning. Please keep in mind, I was 17 years old. I had absolutely no friends here. I had a large extended family and circle of friends still in Philadelphia.
Those Peter Pan buses were horrible. They smelled of piss and dirt. The Philadelphia crowd was a mixed lot, but most of them seemed angry. Perhaps it was the piss and dirt scent. The best thing about each bus was that they were each named for something from Peter Pan: Tinkerbell, The Ticking Clock, Neverland, etc. I thought that was pretty cool.
I wouldn't do much at home. Hang with my friends, see my parents and grandparents. My mom's parents were always a second set of parents to me. And they lived right around the corner from the street I grew up on. So I was always over there. It was just about the time that I went away to NYU that I realized they were mortal. Every time I would say goodbye to them and then go to the bus station I would do so with tears in my eyes, certain I would never see them again. Well, Gram lived 'til I was well into grad school and Pop is still around, although minus a voice box and he's 94.
In my second semester at NYU I found a theatre troupe: The Washington Square Players. They gave me a purpose. Suddenly, there was a community again. One I had been lacking. So I started to find myself, as it were. I started venturing out to Broadway shows. I started to make friends with my roommates and people in the dorm. I started to grow up. Soon, I dreaded going home. I was having too much fun being this stronger, thinner, independent young man I was becoming. I was afraid going home would cause a relapse. It didn't. It strengthened me in many ways and in other ways it strengthened the pull in me that exists today between seeking security and independence. That's a battle, I fear, that will never find peace.
However traveling back from Philly on the Peter Pan bus I would look for the sign that I was back. About halfway through the Lincoln Tunnel you pass a tile marker that says: New Jersey/New York. As soon as we passed that line, I breathed again. Then I waited for the bus to round that long curve in New Jersey and show me the island with the Empire State Building lit up and welcoming me; a beacon like the green light across the water in "The Great Gatsby."
Now, I don't feel at home in New Jersey or in New York. I don't feel completely at home anywhere.
I couldn't shake off an undefinable sadness this Christmas season. I found myself on the verge of tears a lot but for no apparent reason. I wanted the holiday to be over but I wanted the days off to extend but I didn't want to be at my parents or in NYC. I'm restless. A change is needed and a change is coming. Something's going to break soon. But when? And what will appear when the pieces get swept away?
Will this island that seems both too big and too small still be able to hold me?
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