Using locations as characters

Has a city ever become a character in your life?

New York—Manhattan in particular—is that place for me. More so than any other place I’ve lived. It could be because all my formative years were spent there. Maybe it was the volatility of the era: the 1960s through the 1980s. New York was a tinderbox of crime and creativity, with countercultures rising from the rubble. It was scary and exciting, dangerous and sexy. Rife with opportunity, licit and illicit.

I suffered a lot of traumas during my life there, but brushed them off. It wasn’t safe to display weakness. I learned young to keep my fears from matching my posture. Also, my plights were not unique. My peers experienced similar, or worse. It was just the price of admission to live in the world’s most thrilling city. Or so I believed.

I used to covet the people who navigated that urban chaos unfazed. Those who embraced the blight and made it their bitch. Artists, revolutionaries, criminals. Interesting folk. They carried themselves without fear. Spoke with authority, even when they were full of shit.

I yearned to be like those people. I’d put myself out there, pretending to be so hip, so worldly. So much older than I really was, with drugs and alcohol facilitating the ruse. Some bought it, others not. The principled ones hinted that I didn’t belong. The more predatorial tried to take advantage. Many succeeded.

I eventually moved, to smaller, gentler towns and cities. Places flanked by woods or beaches. But dangers still lurked. Turns out, it’s more startling when they’re masked by tranquility. At least in New York the scoundrels are pretty overt about shit.

Whenever I return, I’m overcome with wonder and respect for my city of origin. The people, the vibe, the churning of industry and creativity. That place with endless opportunities. My feelings about New York might always remain complicated. Was it an abusive relationship, or the one who got away?