Scholastic Art & Writing Contest Submission: Dancing in the Streets
Just some context for this, I submitted this piece of writing to Scholastic Art & Writing Contest and received a Silver Key. This piece is a brief recollection of an experience I had in New York. Just to clear things up, the story is based on real events, but all together sends the same message that I received when I truly experienced the trip.
Dancing in the Streets
Dancing freely in the streets of New York, although being a common dream for a little girl to have, has never been a dream of mine. I was raised in a world that told me to be a dreamer, but to be realistic with my expectations. I nodded my head yes to what society had to say about my role in the world, as a young female, seeing everything in black and white without even knowing it. I had no dream, but only expectation to grow up, meet a husband, settle down to have children, and that would be all. I excelled in academics, never knowing the worth of my knowledge, and went through life, never knowing the worth of my accomplishments. I look back at this in awe of what my mind slipped past and all of the missed opportunities that occurred; but with that being in the past, I know all I can do is acknowledge that and learn from it. It was not until this one very important weekend in my life that everything would change for me — that I would rebel against what society has told me, and that I would become the little girl dancing freely in the streets of New York, not realizing that the common dream for the little girl to have was so much more than what it seemed.
FEBRUARY 3RD - 5TH, 2018
It is my sophomore year of high school at four o’clock in the morning, and I am leaving the state without my parents for the first time. Adrenaline is keeping me wide awake, and my stomach is turning from a balanced mix of excitement and panic as the plane begins to board. Even considering my years of traveling alongside my family, I still have an immense amount of uneasiness when it comes to planes. Something about rocketing through the sky, at hundreds of miles an hour, having no control whatsoever sparks terror within me. Nonetheless, something in my gut is telling me that this trip is not a want but a necessity. For the entirety of being in my seat, my palms are wet and shaky, and finally, the plane begins to accelerate. I watch down below as the cars and people become more and more minuscule, as the plane elevates higher and higher, making the airport resemble a real life doll house — like the ones I used to play with as a little girl, when the world seemed so big. After two hours of tapping my foot and clenching my sweaty palms until they were just about purple, the plane begins to descend. My stomach drops a few times, and I am able to feel the speed of the plane as it lowers towards the runway. After grabbing my luggage packed to the rim, just on the verge of bursting open, I pile into a shuttle with some classmates I have never spoken to along with a few that I just barely know. We cross the Brooklyn Bridge and are soon squeezing through the tight roads of Manhattan, bumping shoulders with each other as each turn is made. We get dropped off about a block away from the Museum of Modern Art, and within the brief distance we walk, I form my opinion on the so called “magical” city paved on “hopes” and “dreams”. The buildings are incredibly tall, overwhelmingly towering over me looking like giants in the sky, ready to crush me at any moment. Everyone in the streets seem to be in a rush, walking so fast that they might as well be running. I take a deep breath in to try and grasp everything I am witnessing, but before the air makes it all the way down my lungs I begin to cough from the stench of gasoline lingering in the atmosphere surrounding me. As I stand on the sidewalk of 54th street, people bumping into me left and right, I quickly decide that this is not the place for me. I think, why would anyone dream of being in such a boisterous, filthy place? As we make our way into the museum and start viewing the pieces, things are starting to look up considering my love and appreciation for art, but nothing really strikes me until I come across Van Gogh’s Self Portrait. I take a while to take in the beauty of what is sitting right in front of my eyes. I examine each line and stroke of color; how he so effortlessly yet carefully placed one color next to another, somehow making such clean transition from one to the next. I feel a slight nudge at my shoulder, taking me by surprise considering the fact that I am not too familiar with anyone here, and quickly turn to my right to see who it is.
“Pretty spectacular, right?” said a girl that I had met once or twice who I don't fail to give a passing smile to in the hallways. This sparks a conversation, one of the few intelligent ones I have had in a while, and we begin to talk about how crazy it is that we are both standing in front of such an important piece of art, and that some people are not even giving it as much as a passing glance. After just about fifteen minutes of talking back and forth, she invites me to go to lunch with her and a few other friends of hers.
We take just about an hour longer to view the exhibits we are interested in, than she gathers her friends, and we head into midtown to go eat at this hole-in-the-wall, Vietnamese restaurant while all of the other students head to chain restaurants and dessert places where the milkshakes are bigger than the size of my head. While eating at the restaurant I notice that I recognize some of the faces around me. I have never spoken with them directly, but they have always been the kids that have intrigued me the most; the ones that are so unconditionally themselves no matter what the situation is. It was like they had nothing to hide; like the whole world was just their playground. One of the boys begins to talk about how just before the meal he sat out by Central Park and just sang in the middle of the street with his scratched up ukulele, and to my surprise, but no one else’s, everyone was so proud and supportive of him; not one single negative comment. I have never admitted it out loud, but these are the true people I want to surround myself with— people that allow me to feel free from the cruel society that surrounds me. It just seems so… liberating. As I talk amongst the meal with these kids, it begins to open up my eyes to something that I have continuously dusted off my shoulder in the past. Fitting in has always been so vital to me considering the amount of times I have switched schools. I have always thought if you have successfully blended in, you have made it. All at once, I have a moment of utter despair with my past mindset. What was I thinking? All of these years, through middle school, freshman year, all of it, I have thought that what would make me happy is just the sweet taste of recognition. Attention. Popularity; and as I sit here at this table, I realize that I am experiencing such an intimate moment with people I have never formally met, creating relationships with people that do not necessarily “fit in”, but people who I genuinely enjoy the company of. The change in attitude I experience within just a few hours of being around these new people is unfathomable compared to the elongated feeling of self doubt and insecurity I felt around my “friends” I have back home. As soon as we finish up our meal we head out on the town. As we walked I thought, This is a place where no one knows who I am or what I am about. I can be whoever I want to be. Like a breath of fresh air, I am letting go and am being completely myself for a time in my life where it seems unacceptable. I breathe in, and the air is finally able to reach the pit of my lungs. I skipped through the alleys and hopped on a subway with these new friends down to SOHO. I had no one to impress, and no one to prove myself to — it was just me, the people I have been waiting to meet, and the city; the city that just moments before was grubby and obnoxious, but is now a representation of beauty and freedom in their purest form.
Attempting to put out the flame that had ignited me, I finish off the day crawling into bed, but a constant shiver of excitement going down my spine keeps me up for most of the night. The unpredictable nature of the trip keeps me on my toes, for this is the first time I have been able to be independent. Over the next couple of days I find more and more doors to open, and keys to be found that allow me to feel, for once in my life, like I am doing something right for myself, and not just to please others. On the last day, I take my own “Yellow Brick Road” down the exhibits of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, admiring the pages Michelangelo’s sketchbook and the richness of Matisse’s use of color, and at twelve o’clock that day, I head with my new found friends to the Newark Liberty International Airport. As I walk outside the hotel towards the shuttle, I notice little white specks all over my navy blue sweater. I put one foot into the van, and I turn around to take one more glance at the city, looking awfully gorgeous, sprinkled in white. As I look out the window, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge once again with a feeling of fulfillment rather than confusion, I feel a single tear graze my cheek followed by a stream. As we approach the airport, I gather my things, arm in arm with my new best friends, joking about how sad we all are about leaving the city, having to go back to such a toxic environment. One of my favorite songs starts to play over the echoey speakers in the airport as I am printing my ticket — “Swingin Party” by Lorde, making the moment just that much more special. When I am in my seat and the plane begins to pick up speed, I pull out the journal that my aunt gave me when I was just nine years old. I always keep it on me when traveling just in case there is an emotion I need to capture in the moment. I pull out a pen, and I begin to write:
New York. The city that doesn’t sleep. The Big Apple. Concrete Jungle. The place where dreams come true. I am the saddest I’ve ever been to leave this amazing city. I would say that the city made me feel like I was at home, but in my home I am not as comfortable and vibrant as I am here. Being in the place of dreams made my heart beat ten times faster, keeping me on the edge of my seat like I was at the top of a roller coaster, half a second from feeling my stomach plunge to my toes. It sent a rush of excitement down my spine, leaving me longing for another dose right as I stepped into the shuttle to leave that beautiful place. I was not only intrigued by the gorgeous artwork; this place brought out the true colors of people I pass in the hallway with a smile and wave, and no other acknowledgement, allowing me to meet people I’ve known for years a second time around. I found a piece of myself that I had been searching for to fill my desire of the burning question — what do I want to do with myself in this alluring, harsh world?— and in return, I left a piece of my heart. I learned who I strive to be and the type of people I want to surround myself with. I’ve learned that I’ve sculpted myself to be a person I clearly am not. I’ve realized my appreciation for the arts and love for people who love being themselves. I’ve realized that I love spending time with myself and thinking about the moments that I live everyday and applying that to the logic in my mind. It opened my eyes to how minuscule my problems are, because they diminished as soon as I stepped foot onto the concrete made of velvet and dreams, making me further appreciate the wonderful people I have in my life and reminding me to celebrate that every day, but also reminding myself to stay away from darkness that changes who I am. So, New York, ravishing soul, take my hand ,and never let go. Bring me through your tight streets and narrow alleys; expose me to more of the real world, and never let me fall back to the grounds of where I came from, because it is clearly not where I belong. Where I do belong is here. In New York, dancing in the streets.
