Lightbulb Over Head Blog

The following is the transcript of an interview I conducted with Amy McKenna, a young woman with B.A.’s in Ecology and Marine Biology and a Master’s Degree in Astrobiology. Mrs. McKenna currently resides in Florida and although she has stellar qualifications in her chosen field, she has felt the unfortunate grind of the current job market. In this interview we discuss her own experiences, challenges, and hopes as well as her advice to those trying to jump similar hurdles.

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So, Amy. What did you major in during your collegiate years and what did you expect to do when you got out of college?

When I started college I was a marine biology major and I had no clue what I wanted to do. As I took classes, I added in an ecology major. I figured I could work for the Environmental Protection Agency or find work on a boat, which would be really awesome.

When I went to Australia as a part of my ecology major, we briefly touched on stromatolites, which are a model for how life began on earth. Australia is one of the three places in the world that they exist and I ended up doing a report on stromatolites in Shark Bay.

I had also gone to astronomy conferences with my dad that hosted speakers who were talking about searching for life on other planets. One man was trying to find out how to best grow plants on the International Space Station. I began to learn more about Astrobiology in my Marine Biology course because a lot of the marine systems are used as a model for how life began which is one of the questions that Astrobiology tries to answer. I spoke with my professors about guest speakers that we had in that field and began writing to them to learn about their research. I contacted people working up at Kennedy Space Center figuring that I could go to school for Astrobiology and work for them. It was completely unexpected because I had originally wanted to get my Master’s Degree at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography.

So, I ended up beginning my PhD at the University of Florida, but then I downgraded to a Master’s.

Right now I have no clue what I want to do. It all depends on where I can find work, honestly. I’d take anything.

When did you complete your graduate program?

In August of ‘08

How long were you jobless after graduation?

I still consider myself jobless, so I’ve been jobless for just over a year.

But you are employed, yes? You’re just filling in the gaps, monetarily speaking?

I don’t consider what I’m doing right now a real career because it’s not in my area of interest.

What are you doing right now?

Thankfully, I found part time work at a horse farm here in Florida, ten minutes from home. So what I’m doing right now is shoveling horse shit.

Ha! How did you find that job? Craigslist?

I read a blog called “Fugly Horse of the Day” and the person who writes the blog is aware of the “economic times” and made a post looking for people who needed someone to work on their farm or people looking for farm work. She wanted to help forge connections through her site. Someone responded to her post with a website to find horse jobs called yardandgroom.com. I thought, well shit. It can’t hurt to look.

Little did you know “shit” would be playing a large part in your future.

Haha! Right! So I popped on the site and created and account and a profile and started searching for jobs. Lo and behold, there were a couple in the area. The one I really liked I couldn’t take because it was a live-in job. It wasn’t paid, but you were given room and board, plus board and feed for your horse, and you were able to take lessons from a former Olympic rider. In return you had to clean stalls and groom horses. But of course, my husband wasn’t to keen on me living away from home for a non-paying job. The job I ended up taking was with a family who owns two farms in Coco and Ocala (which is like the Horse Capital of Florida). I pretty much just take care of their horses for them.

I was jobless, myself, for about four months and it took quite an emotional toll. I found myself questioning all sorts of things. What did you feel was letting you down? Your education is certainly extensive but things weren’t clicking. In your most hopeless moments, what were your worries and frustrations?

Probably the biggest thing was, “Am I saying something wrong in my job applications?” and “Am I not employing the right strategies in my job search?” I was looking for jobs within the government and going through their employment sites because the best job security and benefits are with the government right now. Once you get a job with them, it’s really hard not to get a job afterward. They have the most openings for my field.

It’s hard to say…. It isn’t a confidence booster when you don’t hear back from jobs or you get that automated email saying you didn’t rate high enough for consideration.

The thing that I find amazing is how many highly qualified people are sitting behind reception desks or taking “jobs a monkey could do.” When I first got back to New York, I took a job doing work as a doorman/concierge at a luxury apartment building. It’s not exactly an ideal job for a graduate of NYU, but I needed to pay my rent and it was the best job I could find at the time. Recently I was brainstorming a character for a project with a friend and he described the character we were working on as someone who went from “God to Doorman, the lowest of the low.” It struck me, suddenly, that I’d had that job, and because of that, I had such a different perception of it than my friend did. I certainly didn’t think of myself of “the lowest of the low.”

You made an important point earlier when you said that you don’t think of what you’re doing as a job because its not in the career field that you want. It’s not a job. It’s just what you’re doing right now. That means your mind is open to continuing to strive when so many people are just settling for what they can get.

As some people have said, “You have an effing Master’s degree and you’re shoveling dung for money!?” I look at it more as keeping myself on a schedule. Without a job, I have an awful tendency to stay up later and later and sleep in later and later. That’s not good at all. It keeps me active because it’s pretty hard physical labor, plus… I’m being paid to get in shape. But really, it’s also important because when I do get that elusive interview, I can say, “Well, I’ve picked up part time work.”

Which is important to show you’re active and you have a hunger to do something with your life.

I’m also starting to volunteer at a local zoo.

Such a good point. People need to find something to pay their bills, but it’s important that you pursue your goals and sometimes that means putting in extra hours as well as seeking out volunteer opportunities and internships that can help build your resumé. At the gym where I’m working my “day job,” we needed more yoga teachers but we knew we couldn’t afford to pay them. We put up an ad on craigslist just to see if we could find anyone at all and we ended up with over 20 people, each ready to commit to a job that wouldn’t pay them any money at all. Yet, they all had interest because it would help them build their resumés.

I believe it. I’ve heard of a lot of people doing similar things. There’s a community on livejournal.com called “Team Unemployed.” It’s just a forum for support and commiseration. People offer tips and they often include: get involved, volunteer, do something! That way you can say what you’ve been doing with your time when you get the chance.

The same thing goes on a creative level. It’s actually part of the reason I began this blog. You have to tend that flame inside of yourself and keep it burning both for the sake of your career and your interviews, but also for yourself. You have to feed that hunger. I know a lot of people, myself included, have felt or are feeling like they have lost their way.

I would say that, for sure. I worry, because it’s been such a long time since I’ve done anything pertaining to my field, that I’ll get into a situation where a prospective employer asks me a technical question, I’ll flub it just because I’m not current with the knowledge. That’s a huge worry for me.

You just have to find ways to keep yourself going, keep yourself involved, and keep yourself on a schedule. I think people who are just getting out of school now have to take heart in the fact that, yes, things are harder than they have been in the past. For many people, there aren’t jobs waiting for them the way they used to.

I would say that really depends on the field and moreover, who you know.

That’s true. I have a friend who went to The United States Naval Academy and from my understanding, she hasn’t felt the pressures of our economy at all simply because her program feeds into a four year commitment/job.

It’s certainly tough.

At the same time, I know you have a passion for horses, and while you may not have a passion for cleaning up after them, working with them has to keep you positive.

It helps knowing that I’m accessing a knowledge base every day that I’m well versed in, yes.

So what’s on the horizon for you, Amy?

I went up to visit my family in Connecticut. My mom is an organizer for The Fresh Air Fund, which is a volunteer organization that takes inner city kids out of their environment in New York City and sends them out to stay with families within a days drive of the city for two weeks to get a taste of a different lifestyle. I went to an event with my mom and everyone was asking me what I was doing, which of course, I hated. Then they asked me what my degrees are and what I wanted to do.

As we talked, I found out that one woman’s husband works as a Senior Geologist for an environmental consulting firm and he is very dissatisfied with his current employees. Apparently he wants someone he can trust to do their job. She told me a horror story about how he had sent someone out to inspect for asbestos. The guy had checked the first floor and because he couldn’t see an easy way to the second floor, he simply reported to her husband that there was no asbestos in the building. Her husband went back to check and found out that there absolutely was asbestos on the second floor of the building. Apparently, he also had two employees who refused to go out an collect dirt samples because it “looked like it might rain,” to which I responded, “I’ve gone out riding horses during a hurricane! I could do that job.” It sounded like a job that was right up my alley and would use my degrees. Maybe grunt work is a little bit beneath a Master’s Degree, but you have to start somewhere. The woman offered to take my resumé to her husband and a few days later my mother got a call from the Geologist saying he was amazed that I didn’t have a job yet and that I met every requirement he was looking for. He said if he had a job opening he would hire me on the spot.

The company is owned by an international umbrella based in the Finland, but they do environmental consulting for the U.S. government and private corporations. They also do buyer communications and my skill set is perfect for that. Currently I have the promise that this Geologist is pushing my resumé through the system and that if they get this contract that they have a bid on, he’ll push to hire me.

That would be amazing!

It’s a waiting game now, but if I get this job, it will really prove my theory that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.

Networking is absolutely crucial. Sometimes you have to do that audacious thing and just contact the people you admire in whatever field you’re pursuing and ask for advice or assistance.

Exactly. That’s how I met the professor that gave me a job as a lab assistant during my time at the University of Florida.

All it took was one question.

***

Special thanks to my fantastic interviewee, Amy McKenna. During this interview, the following job listing or unemployment support sites were mentioned:

http://community.livejournal.com/team_unemployed

usajobs.gov

yardandgroom.com

Amy also mentioned that sites like Monster.com and Careerbuilder.com were pretty much useless.

Mrs. McKenna can be contacted for further information at amye (dot) mckenna (at) gmail (dot) com

The clouds opened up above my head, throwing water down on the city in sheets. The storm brewed and churned in the dark cover of night as I walked through Washington Square Park. It was a ghostland of it’s usual self. I was the only one passing through and the new slate gray benches were being pelted so hard that it looked like the rain was falling up. The street looked like a glistening pool of water, reflecting multi-colored neon signs over slick pavement and puddles.

I was alone with nowhere in particular to be and it felt unbelievable. As the sky cried down ribbons of rain, I lifted my head upward and let it pour over my face and bare arms as I smiled into the velvet black clouds. My eyes went wide as the heavens answered my interest with lightning followed by the soft purr of thunder a few moments later. It lit the marble cornices of the building and for a moment I imagined there were gargoyles that might leap from their lofty hiding places and swoop down to fly me over the city. I felt at that moment that I was in sore need of an adventure. Alas, the architecture remained in place.

I hummed the opening notes of “Singing in the Rain,” sashaying from side to side for a few steps. The shower was cool on my warm skin. I wanted to sink into the storm and live in it with an open heart. I wanted it to soak through my hair to my scalp and make my clothes hang off of the frame of my body.

My pants were getting heavy and long, wrapping around my sandaled feet as they sloshed through unexpectedly deep puddles at street corners. I didn’t care if the rain ruined me all together. For once, I wasn’t trying to get from one point to another, I was simply a point moving along of it’s free own will.

I made a second loop around the fountain at the center of the park for no reason except that I wanted to. I looked at the new plantings in the park and watched the water drip down from one leaf to the next. It made me think of watching Bambi as a little girl.

The rain thickened, urged on by another flickering lightning bolt. The downpour applauded the pavement repeatedly, making the sound of countless clapping hands. I wrapped my arms over my head. I couldn’t see anything, just snips of light and puddles as I darted across University Place. The water was so powerful that it was forcing it’s way into my eyes, grabbing at my contact lenses. I blinked rapidly as I tried to see straight and was chased by the aggressive weather under the red and black awning of a popular lounge. People were inside enjoying their fancy drinks and looking dapper, peering out the misty windows at my gloriously disheveled form. I struggled with my contacts, trying to get my pointer finger dry enough to keep the lens form clinging to it like an insistent toddler begging to be held. It felt strange to be focused on such a small thing after being so open to the vast sky just moments before.

Once the task was complete, I squinted at the street, blinking slowly to be sure the contacts were in right. As my vision cleared, I saw a boy across the street from me, tucked under the overhang of one of the NYU buildings. He sat on the lip of a stairway in a white tank top and jeans, lit from the side by stark white light from a nearby window. He had short brown hair and his head was sinking between his widely placed knees, feet flat on the lowest step. His hands were linked behind his neck as he stared down at the ground with his elbows perched on his knees. He was exceptionally still. A glint of varnished wood caught my eye. Behind him, tucked in back a nearby column was a sad, little, lonely guitar.

The image was so gripping that I almost crossed the street to get a closer look. He didn’t see me from where I was standing although I must have been staring for at least a full minute. I wondered what his story was. Was there a woman? A man? Just by scooting back a few inches, he could have been shielded by the rain, but like me, he was indulging in the weather. Nothing would have stopped him from playing, but he had decided not to for some reason. There was something about him that reminded me of Pablo Picasso’s The Old Guitarist. I remembered seeing it as a child at The Art Institute of Chicago. I was told by my teacher that it was very famous and important, but I didn’t see anything so special about it. Yet here I was on an ordinary Friday night in New York City, thinking of that painting- Thinking of this boy and why he wouldn’t play in the rain, why he had given up hope.

I frowned as the street was lit momentarily by a flash of lightning. The thunder was farther away now, almost inaudible amongst the ambient urban sounds from Broadway. I started walking towards the “N” train. I was returning to the New York I remembered.

The New York I hated in the rain.

The New York that made me buy the most heinous neon yellow umbrella I could find so that people would stop trampling me in the rain.

Suddenly there were people around me and the storm was all but gone. I descended into the subway. The clouds curled back up into the waiting cupboard of the the sky like guestroom pillows being put away after a visitor vacates, leaving the house just a bit emptier. I felt strangely abandoned and lost, left with the lingering tendrils of a magical experience, a poetic one even. I’m sitting here trying to discern what any of it may have meant, but I’m utterly at a loss for words beyond the surreal beauty of what literally happened. All I know is that I won’t soon forget the extraordinary walk to the subway that should have been mundane.

Sooner or later you will face a brutal reality:

Your high school reunion.

The fear will climb you like a maypole and you will think your are thirty pounds fatter than you actually are. You will check the guest list for your high school crushes or old boyfriends and be warmed by those old flames, followed by an endless panic attack concerning seeing them again. You’ll destroy your closet looking for the perfect ensemble and plan hair and makeup for a week ahead of time. Moreover, you’ll plan how to describe your job so that you don’t sound like a glorified receptionist.

You say to yourself + 30 imaginary pounds in the mirror, “Oh college, how have you failed me so completely?”

Then the day arrives. It’s the moment of truth.

Results may vary after this point. I can only speak for myself.

A certain amount of anticipation and dread accompanied my decision to attend my high school reunion, but I never struggled with whether or not to go. I knew from the moment I got that letter inviting me to “The School by the Sea” for my 5th year reunion that I would be there.

Let me explain. My high school education wasn’t what you would call normal. I went to boarding school one thousand miles away from home. When I tell new acquaintances this, they usually react in the following way.

Wide-eyed with wonderment and a mischievous gleam in their eye they ask, “What did you do?”

This reaction makes me laugh because so many people can’t imagine sending their son or daughter of to school across the country at the tender age of fourteen. They figure you must have done something so horrible that you had be sent away to “learn to respect your limits or your elders” or both.

Let’s set the record straight. I wasn’t packed off and sent to boarding school because I’m some sort of juvenile delinquent. I chose to leave home.

See, I always loved summer camp. I went to Camp Seafarer in North Carolina for 8 years and worked there as a counselor for two. I wouldn’t be who I am today without my experiences there. The first year I went, I was ten. I was a shy girl who barely spoke up except to say incredibly awkward things. I was the kind of child who could play on a playground for hours and not bother to learn the names of the other children I was playing with because I was too terrified to ask. Facing a month away from home was frightening and exciting, but when I got there, I slowly came out of my shell. I blossomed, some might say. I went out to activities every day and set goals for myself, striving every day to achieve them. I learned how to sail, how to tie a bowline knot, and how to jump a hurdle on horseback. It was at Camp Seafarer that I was asked to dance by a boy for the first time. There were a lot of firsts at camp, and the best part of it all was that I was in control of my own destiny.

I’m an only child, you see. Every step of the way up until that point, my parents had been there guiding, supporting, micromanaging, and frogmarching me towards some undisclosed success. There are advantages and disadvantages to being the sole object of your mother and father’s love. I was given every possible opportunity; piano lessons, ice skating lessons, vacations, tutors, and educational trips. Anything I asked for, I got and usually more. Every time I soared I was rewarded and every time I fell, I was supported, analyzed, and talked through how to improve upon or avoid this mistake again. I never had that integral sink or swim moment.

However, at Camp Seafarer, I was in control. I scheduled my activities and I auditioned for plays. When I failed, it was up to me to fix it. When I succeeded, I simply basked in the glow of a job well done. It was enough because it was all mine.

Back in Chicago, I went to a middle school that ended in eighth grade and when I reached that point, I had to apply to high schools. I applied to every private school in the city, including my own personal Jesuit nightmare, St. Ignatius College Preperatory School. When I visited, I hated it. The students seemed dispassionate as they marched to classes in their uniforms. They answered questions when they had to and not because they wanted to. They were smart, make no mistake, but I couldn’t see myself fitting in. As the year forged on, I became restless. I wasn’t particularly happy about any of the choices of schools I had applied to thus far.

One day, I saw a friend of mine looking through a boarding school brochure. Inside its laminated story book pages there were kids on bicycles, grassy quads, blue skies, pine trees, and red track fields. It showed kids making clay bowls on spinning wheels and singing in a capella groups. I knew that I could probably find some of those things at the private schools in Chicago, but an idea had formed in my head. Judging by my success at camp, perhaps I could achieve more away from the loving arms of my parents then I could within their reach.

With my parent’s permission, I applied to boarding schools all over the east coast. The next fall, I found myself at Tabor Academy in a dorm with twenty other girls, most from the area around school, whereas I was 1,000 miles away from home, and completely out of my element.

I had the unique opportunity to decide who I was. No one knew me. I could make first impressions on an entire community. Even knowing this, I was terribly afraid I would make some awful blunder.

The first few nights there, I sat on one of the granite benches on the water front. Even though I had worked so hard to get away from home, I missed it. I knew my mother and father would have had some useful knowledge to impart. All they way to school, my parents had pelted me with so much advice that I couldn’t see straight when we arrived. I couldn’t wait for them to leave me the hell alone. As we hugged goodbye till Thanksgiving, my mother wagged her finger. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” she said with great reverence. Afterward, that piece of Polonius’ advice from Hamlet has served as their final words to me whenever they drop me off at my current place of residence.

The seabreeze tossed my thick bush of brown hair across my face as I looked out over Buzzards Bay. All of their advice was slipping through my fingers. I was here to make my way without them.

Sometimes, I thought, you should be careful what you wish for.

I stayed at Tabor for four years. The first two were hellish and I was unhappy. I wanted to be wonderful at science and sports, but that just wasn’t in the cards. Nothing seemed to come naturally to me, least of all social aptitude. No one enjoyed being friends with a stuck up city girl who loved Star Wars and sang the Moulin Rouge version of  “Lady Marmalade” at least fifty times a day in her dorm room while everyone else was trying to study. It wasn’t until I laid anchor in the theater and music community that I found a foothold for myself at Tabor. Teachers and students started looking at me differently. They knew my name and they didn’t call me out on dress code infractions as much. I did the musical every year and toured with my a capella group every spring. It was a damn fine gig if I do say so myself. My last two years at Tabor were some of the happiest in my life. My friends were like family and theater was a dream. I felt so lucky to be there every day.

And so it was that I entered highschool wanting to be an astronaut and left with a passion for the stage, headed to New  York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, no less. I graduated with awards for contribution to theater and choral music and I left thinking I knew a lot more about myself than I would have if I had gone to school back at home in Chicago. My parents were still extremely proud, and supportive, but I had done this for myself.

I had no idea what awaited me in New York. I knew I would get through it as I had gotten through life at Tabor, but I was in no way prepared for my first year there, let alone the other three. It was filled with art, non-sexual nakedness, dance, shock, and student rush tickets to Broadway shows. I was back in an urban environment, pulsing with energy, buzzing with life. I was filled with passion for what I was doing every single day. Imagine: No more math classes. It was heavenly. I thank my lucky stars every day that my parents let me go and paid for my education at Tisch.

Now, it’s a year after my graduation from NYU and I’m living the life of a starving artist. Like everyone else in America, I have felt the pain of our declining economy, losing my job and not being able to get a new one for four months at a time. In December, I broke up with the man I can’t stop loving. In January, I saved a suicidal room mate’s life when I found her bleeding out in the bathtub. In February, I lost a dear friend and collaborator to a successful suicide attempt. By March, I was still jobless and was feeling the desperate strain of my independent reality weigh on me heavily every second of every single day. This is my life, I thought. I can’t stand my life right now.

It had been almost a year since I had performed in a full scale production. I could feel my life blood and passion begging for attention like a poorly tended hearth living in the pit of my stomach. My skin was going numb.

That’s when I got the letter inviting me back to Tabor Academy for my high school reunion.

How can I face all of these wonderfully smart and successful people? I thought. I’ll be a laughing stock again… or worse, they won’t recognize me at all.

I’m not fearless, but I like to think I have a bit more backbone than to let a few momentary insecurities stop me from going through such an important right of passage.

The truth is, as the day approached, I realized how much I had missed that community. I had spent so much of my life pushing forward and away from anything or anyone that had nurtured me along the way, but now I dearly missed the cradle of support that I got from my parents, teachers, and friends at Tabor. I had been a ship my whole life, struggling to break free from my mooring, but now I was ready to return to port, more ready than I ever thought I would be.

As I arrived back on campus, my heart pounded in my chest. My body felt weak, almost euphoric. Many of my classmates had remained in the same area and saw each other more often, but true to form I had left the nest and sailed into uncharted waters.

The whole weekend was like a glorious out of body experience. People I knew well and people I hadn’t all asked how I’d been and seemed to care about my response. I realized that I cared about theirs and I was proud of their numerous accomplishments. I remembered more first and last names than I thought I would. Seeing my teachers struck such a resonant chord with me. They had spent four years as my surrogate parents, setting me up for success, talking me through rough patches, and inviting me for Sunday afternoon tea. The whole reunion was like a warm celebratory ritual with dancing, drinking, and storytelling.

Near the end of the evening I was laughing with a friend who had gone with me to the Caribbean aboard the school’s tall ship to do an on-site marine studies class. We were resting our feet as the rest of our classmates danced the night away. He asked me what I was up to and I told him about the play I was writing, my novel, my new apartment, and how much i enjoyed the process of developing new musicals.

“You’re living the dream.” He laughed and smiled at me.

Until he said that, I had completely forgotten that I was.

At the end of the weekend, I felt my ship had been thoroughly resuplied. I had collected information and maps, and made plans for new adventures, confident that I could sail across the fated sea with a warm wind at my back.

I have decided that once Odysseus returned to Ithaca, he must have longed for another voyage.

I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in this:

Sooner or later, everyone will drop anchor in New York City.

Be it a year, a semester abroad, or a long weekend, people from all around the world will pay a visit to the place my father reverently calls “The Center of the Universe.”

I’ve said a few disparaging or disheartening things about this urban labyrinth, but I wouldn’t be living here if I didn’t love it. However, I’m not so in love with this city that I can’t recognized the misplaced overconfidence in this statement.

There is an undeniable dream-like quality that accompanies the uttering of the words “New York.” I want to be a part of it. My little home is on the 100th floor. The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down. It’s the city that never sleeps. Lets face it, if Amy Adams endorses New York City as the perfect place to unfold a fairy tale in her movie Enchanted, I’m inclined to believe her. She’s just so darn cute!

In my five years living here, I’ve ventured to tourist hot-spots like the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’ve also discovered my own treasures, like the gorgeous story-book fountain by City Hall that is lit with gas lamps, their flames flickering like smoldering ballerina feet in the night. I’ve enjoyed a disparate array of cuisines from street food to five star restaurants. No matter how long I’m here, the infinite well of the city provides me with more scope for the imagination and my taste buds. Where else can you get pad thai delivered to your door at 3 AM?

I love the ability to disappear amongst the metal spires of skyscrapers and at the same time, I stand by the fact that even in this massive city, I still run into friends on the street. They vary from close friends to long lost coworkers. While this may not be everyone’s last stop, it certainly makes everyone’s “must see” list. I’ve crossed paths with almost every important person in my life while treading the metropolitan asphalt.

People always want to visit me here to get a proper tour from a “real New Yorker.” I love having them and it’s incredibly convenient and cost effective for me. Like Hermes, the Greek god of hospitality, I accept all visitors and newcomers with dutiful open arms, suggesting interesting off-the-beaten-path attractions and helping foreigners find the best subway routes- and I’m not the only one! Once, when my mom was on business here for her law firm, it was raining heavily and a man saw her without an umbrella and promptly walked her all the way back to her hotel, not taking no for an answer. When they arrived, he said, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you New Yorkers aren’t nice.” Then he promptly disappeared into the sea of passing umbrellas leaving no name and no trace.

However, I find I’m leaving the city less and less. It makes me ponder how this affects my mental health and most importantly my sense of perspective. New York might be a centrifuge for culture and commerce, but I’m not sure that it really is the center of the universe and without question, it isn’t the only place that matters inside of it.

New York sometimes feels like an inescapable womb in the process of breeding and evolving a new strain of subhuman. I shall call them:

Turtle People.

Just kidding.

But not really. Let’s take a ride, shall we?

When you decide to live in New York City, you run the risk of becoming a Turtle Person. I once stumbled up on this phenomena, and by stumbled upon I mean coined this term myself, while discussing what a battle it is to navigate the NYC subway system, pick up your morning coffee, and arrive at work unscathed and on time. I was commiserating with my friend, Pam, about how alone you can feel even in a packed subway car and how everyone moves through their day with their head inside their shell until they require food or some other service, and then they pop their heads out, blazing with this incredibly unattractive, blinding sense of entitlement. If two Turtle People pop their heads out of their shells at the same time…

The results could be disasterous.

This is the danger of letting New York trap you. which I don’t necessarily mean in a physical sense. It’s very easy to get sucked into a grueling routine. Every weekday, when I plunge down into the subway at rush hour, I begin to feel my turtle shell forming and hardening. I bend my elbows, clench my fists, and forge ahead through the flow of people towards the turn-styles. I used my shoulders defensively, protecting my iPhone like a linebacker driving the ball through a veritable phalanx of opposition. I brace myself as I weed through people rushing at me, trying just as fervently to go in the opposite direction, all of our shells thickening as we advance deeper into the underbelly of the city. I arrive at the doors of my train as they are closing. In my way: A tiny old woman who is unsure of whether or not to enter.

“MOVE!” I bellow at her, head emerging from my shell as I try desperately to make my train. I completely ignore the fact that the woman could be a tourist who doesn’t understand English and I disregard that old platitude about “respecting your elders.”

You get the picture? Turtle People. Tell your friends.

That’s the risk you run when you live here. Of course, there’s a degree of expectation that you will get used to all of the people packed into small spaces. At first its just a matter of putting on your headphones and getting to a state of Zen, but eventually, this develops into a defensiveness and a willingness to be combative. It’s a jungle out there and you have to eat or be eaten from time to time.

At the other end of the spectrum, I have also felt the immense power of communal love in New York City. Last summer, my parents and I were in a car accident on the Upper West Side. We were in a cab on our way home from my graduation from NYU. I was in a gentle slumber, leaning on my mother’s shoulder. I was full of good food and celebratory dreams when I was shaken from my sleep by the perpendicular impact of our taxi with a woman’s car that was speeding across town. I woke, crumpled against the divider. Stupidly none of us were wearing seat belts and I was completely disoriented. My mother was gasping for breath, repeating the words, “My chest is crushed.” The combined weight of me and my father had slammed into her and sharply knocked the wind out of her. As I got my bearings, I realized my father was clutching his head. I could see his head had a huge gash across his forehead. He was talking quickly and saying “I’m ok,” not to mention trying to tell a few jokes as he stumbled out onto the street. I knew he couldn’t be too badly hurt because his jokes were at the same degree of “corny” that they always are, but the blood made it look worse than it was.

I followed him, trying to help him settle on the curb when I noticed how many people were rushing out of their stores onto the street. Apparently the crash had been rather loud. People gathered around us, trying to help my dad and steadying me as I dropped my diploma and my program. They carefully began checking my face and arms for scrapes and blood.

“I have to get my mom,” I said to the woman who was leading me to the sidewalk, but when we turned towards the cab, a gentleman was already helping her, supporting her weight on his arm. As an EMT student who happened to be passing helped my dad into the neck brace he was carrying with him, a shop-owner brought out plastic chairs and bottled water for me and my mother.

The traffic on Broadway had been brought to a halt and as my senses reawakened and the pounding in my head subsided, I realized that for every person that was helping us on our side of the street, just as many were helping the female driver who had hit us on the other side.

When I looked at my dad lying on the sidewalk, bleeding profusely from his forehead, I started to lose it and began to cry. I didn’t see her approaching, but a homeless woman put her hand on my shoulder. Normally I would have glared and pulled away in disgust, but that day I didn’t. She squeezed my shoulder with her warm leathery hand and said. “He’s going to be OK, Mama.” She smiled reassuringly. I stopped crying as we locked eyes and she calmed me down with her steady, concerned gaze.

I kept dropping the papers I was holding. The woman who was looking after my mother picked them up for me. She noted the purple NYU insignia on them and smiled. “I went there. What a great school!”

“I g-graduated today.” I stammered. It was all I could think to say.

She giggled good naturedly and looked between my mom and me, taking both of our hands. “You’ll remember this day for the rest of your lives!” We all laughed.

That day was such a testament to the spirit of New York- the spirit that got this amazing city through immense tragedy and hardship during 9/11/2001, the spirit that made that Wesley Autrey Sr. leap onto the slippery tracks of the New York Subway in order to hold down 19 year old epileptic, Cameron Hellopeter, saving his life by keeping his shaking body still as the train passed over them.

So yes, we run the risk of becoming Turtle People, but being here isn’t always a battle. Sometimes it’s the greatest opportunity of your lifetime and an absolute honor to be a New Yorker.

This morning, I killed a man.

That’s a lie. I didn’t “kill” him, but for exactly three seconds after the following event transpired, I harbored murderous thoughts in my heart.

I was walking down the street and skipping to the next track on my iPhone when a man, who was apparently walking behind me, RAMMED into my left arm so roughly that I was shoved against the glass window of GNC on Lexington Avenue. Then, this man had the AUDACITY to glare at me and say “Watch it!” while motioning in a frantically pissed off fashion at the device in my hand. The man was older and had gray hair. He was certainly spry and didn’t carry a cane, but he had an undeniable crotchety quality.

Firstly, Sir, you approached from my rear. Even if I hadn’t been looking at my iPhone at that exact moment, I wouldn’t have seen you coming. “Why?” you ask. Well. Simply put, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. If I did, they would be covered in hair. For those of you who are unaware of this fact, I have very long, very full brown hair.

So you know what, man? YOU WATCH IT.

Seriously, after this happened, there were three seconds where I could have killed him. If I hadn’t been regaining my balance at the time, I might have. Plus, as he stalked off, he walked BETWEEN a man holding the hand of his young daughter. That’s right. He’s a homewrecker.

That’s a lie.

He’s not a home wrecker, but what kind of man has the choice of the ENTIRE SIDEWALK and chooses to walk between two people, nay, a man and a child holding hands?

This incident reminded me of a time I was rushing to catch a train to class at NYU. I was transfering like I did every day. Pause. Let me tell you how much I hated this transfer. Firstly, its a long, sweaty, stupid transfer. It looped all around the underground station and I think everyone who had to transfer there hated it because from what I could tell, everyone looked like they were in the calvary in the movie Gladiator. They were bearing down with clenched eyes and brandishing their backpacks, briefcases, and umbrellas menacingly. Their mission was to make it to the platform and race up the stairs to the train. However, this was harder than one would think.

These stairs led to the Sophie’s Choice of subway platforms. The train never came to the same platform, so essentially, everyone would stay huddled between the two stairwells as other people rushed by and jostled you on the way to their other less complicated commuting situations. You had to crane your neck and listen through the ambient noise to guess which platform the train was pulling into and then race at break-neck speed to the correct stairwell. Anyone who has ever been on the NYC subway knows how hard it is to listen carefully to anything. If you guessed wrong you missed the train.  Basically everyone was huddled in silence like Anne Frank in the attick or slaves on the Underground Railroad until the train pulled in. Once it did, there was a frantic stampede up the stairs. I’m pretty sure there have been casualties at this station, but everyone is so frantic to get to where they’re going that no one notices if any of their comrades in “commuting battle” fall. You also have to race the closing doors of the train and that damnable vixen who announces them. Every time she says “Doors Closing,” I want to slaughter a white kitten.

On the day in question, I was dashing up the stairs and I was at the back of the pack. The woman in front of me should have had a walker, but she didn’t. No one was helping her up the stairs. I couldn’t even help her because we were sandwiched in so tightly. Time was ticking down and we finally made it up the stairs. People were filing into the train. Me and the walkerless broad SHOULD have been able to make it, but that would be too easy and there wouldn’t be a story, now would there?

She stopped at the door with arms outstretched, looking for the train number, letter, or maybe even a sign from God himself, but for whatever reason, she made no move to enter the vehicle.

“Doors Closing.” Ding dong.

The doors slid shut with her still gaping and scratching at her dry freckled scalp, which yes, I remember quite clearly.

“COME ON!” I screamed at her and threw up my hands. After I bellowed, she turned around and stared at me, her eyes wide and teary with obvious terror at my outburst. After the adrenaline died down, my heart sank and I felt pretty awful. I appologized demurely and walked all the way to the other end of the platform in shame to wait for the next train, praying it would come to the same platform so I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole bloody ritual again.

You can hate me if you want because I yelled at an elderly lady, but I tell you this because I think New York is full of these sorts of moments. Just today I was walking through Time’s Square with a friend of mine. The streets were packed with people here for the weekend of the 4th of July and some tax protest was also going on. I felt trapped and claustrophobic. As we were crossing a street, I felt like we were in that scene from Footloose where they play chicken on the tractors. No one was moving to allow anyone to pass so the two sides of the the street were converging on each other like batallions on opposite sides of the feild. It was as if the sides of the parted Red Sea were crashing down on Yul Brynner and his Egyptian chariots.

Time’s Square is often like this, but today something bizarre happened. My friend grabbed my backpack as he walked behind me. He wasn’t pushing me, but because we were both walking forward, I now lacked the ability to stop if I needed to for fear of tripping him up or creating a massive pedestrian traffic jam. It made me think of how we pass through time. There’s no fast forward or rewind, you just keep moving whether you like it or not. I had a miniature panic attack in my chest and I actually think I yelled out “Stop Pushing me!” even though he wasn’t. I’m told I caused a scene, but honestly, it was such a stressful mom.

Does these things happen to everyone or just me? It must happen to us all. I know I’m certifiable, but I don’t think I’m so far off base that my experiences aren’t relatable.

After a few evening errands, my friend and I ended up in Washington Square Park. I had wanted to check out the new fountain installation because I hadn’t seen it yet. As we entered the park, I was immediately hit by a lilting drum beat and the quivering vibrato of a jazz saxaphone solo. It was divine. We spotted a bench and sat down. The fountain was pumping at full force, pushing and pulsing high into the air. Whenever the breeze moved towards us it took a refreshing, non-invasive mist of water in our direction. We talked of Twitter, recent plays we had seen, and our fears that we might be going crazy, amongst other things. They sky was like a painting. Its not often I take a moment to actually look at the sky while I’m in the city. Sure, I look at the buildings and skyscrapers, but not the sky itself. The clouds were long, fluffy pillows and they were catching the firey orange light from the setting sun. Then, my friend giggled and pointed to a perfect bubble that was floating towards us in the air. At the same moment be both miraculously exclaimed, “It’s a Glinda Bubble!” Then we convulsed in laughter till our sides hurt. A man in the park had a bubble wand and was dragging it around the fountain as he danced to the many different musical strains springing like creative fonts from all the corners of the park. There was also a strange Asian boy dancing with a hula hoop who I must admit was pretty mesmerizing.

After our restful moment in the park, I decided to buy the first installment of Percy Jackson and the Olympians from the “teen fiction” section of the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore. It was kind of embarrassing to buy a book from the teen fiction shelf, but I did it anyways. I can’t be stopped when it comes to modern fictional interpretations of mythology.

So at the end of the night I sit here on my couch and despite the rough start to the day and some comedicly stressful reflections, July 1st had a rather pleasant end. All of these intense moments just seem to add up to the right equation. And that’s just life in the big city.