I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
The song “Empire State of Mind” celebrates New York as the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of.”
My first thought is “Huh? Who learned you that grammar?”
My second thought is “I know exactly what you mean.”
Whatever your dreams, you can probably chase them in NYC. And you won’t be alone. The NYC marathon is everyday.
Here’s a question from Lisa:
Every time I write or say this, I feel redundant. But here we go again: I originally thought this blog’s audience would consist entirely of people who share my DNA.
I was just out of college and moving far from home. I thought I’d have interesting things to say that my parents would care about. Maybe later I’d want to revisit those confused, adverb-heavy years of learning NYC. Perhaps someday I’d have a child way more sophisticated than I who’d look at my feelings and observations and with a gentle shake of the head, tear me a new one.
That’s still the purpose of this very long Internet writing assignment, though I’ve been read by many more along the way. The experience has been more rewarding than I ever intended, something else I stumbled into, like my favorite songs and foods and people.
Here’s a question from James, one of my fiction classmates:
Your blog helped me procrastinate for several hours this week. I especially enjoyed reading about your experiences teaching in Harlem. You have some good material there for a black comedy. The bookshelf is a great idea, and I was surprised to find that I have read precisely none of the works on your list. It’s a testament to how much is out there that two people who read as much as we do would have no overlap… Also, any advice you have for me regarding blogging is greatly appreciated.
People ask me this fairly often. Here’s another question I got recently from Dain:
New Yorkers don’t look up and take in the view nearly enough.
Why?
Because we live here, dammit, and we’re in a hurry to do something mundane. Like make enough money to pay for our decrepit apartments.
Also, if you don’t keep your head at the right angle, you just might step into something you don’t want to.
Like a steaming pile of animal waste. Or an open manhole.
Here’s a question from Kris:
It’s been beautiful in NYC the last few days, and it’s about time.
I won’t miss my coats or sweaters or hats.
But boots and tights? Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Here’s a question from Amy:
My phone rang as I tried to shed the winter layers of puffy down coat, hat, scarves (yes, it’s so cold I’ve been layering two), and fleece zip-up. I wouldn’t have answered, but it was a college friend I’ve been playing social media tag with for a few days.
“Hey,” I said breathlessly.
He laughed. “Uh, hi. Is it a good time?”
“Yes! I just walked up three flights, and I’m taking my coat off. But yes!”
“Three flights?” He asked. “You moved from the old place?” He meant the tiny, ground floor studio on Central Park West. “You loved it there.”
“Did not.”
“I thought you did.”
“I loved it, because I had to,” I reasoned. “I’ve moved on.”
Here’s a question from Anna:
There’s nothing too unique about my NYC story.
I visited for the first time when I young and impressionable and barely giving my training bra a workout.
Like many people from small towns where everyone knows everyone (and probably also that person’s brother and no good cousin Petey), I was blown away.
This city full of bustling strangers, culture, both history and the future, this is where I’d live someday when I grew up.
Maybe by then I’d have boobs, too.
Here’s a question from Luisa:
New Yorkers have a reputation for being unfriendly. This isn’t news to anyone.
And that stereotype? Sometimes true. People are busy and gruff sometimes. Many come here to “make it” in some capacity and only look out for themselves.
I moved to NYC with exactly zero friends or family members waiting for me. I didn’t worry about loneliness, because I’ve always been independent and to put it nicely, blunt.
But even the snarkiest introverts need someone to love them. I mean, especially those types. A cactus needs sunshine. You get where I’m going?
Here’s a question from Lisette:
I’ve decided to make next week an Ask Amanda Asktravaganza. Old questions shall be answered once and for all!
So if there’s something you’d like to ask, now is an excellent time to do so through the contact form. I’ll try to answer it this week or next.
You can also ask anonymous questions at formspring.me.
Let me start by handing you a 32-inch wiffle ball bat (one that’s bright yellow and metaphorical) and saying, “Here’s the hard part of my head. Go to town.”
If you email me via the contact page, thank you! I’m sorry I can’t send you pictures of my feet, but thank you.
If you email me questions, I appreciate your trust in me. But I’m lame and sometimes I forget to respond and then months later, there’s almost no reason to answer. The question asked is now totally irrelevant.
I feel awful about this, and I’m working on it.
It might help if you tell me a question you have is urgent and your life depends on my answering it. Or maybe you people could stop asking such deep questions.
I mean, “What dental floss do you use, Amanda?” That I could answer easily.
Here’s a question from Jessica:
I still get questions about teaching in NYC from time to time, and they make me feel a bit like a dunce.
Yes, I taught in Harlem public schools for two years. I helped a few kids master reading comprehension and threatened many more with calls home, recess detention, and eternal damnation.
I’m no expert on how to be an amazing inner-city school teacher who could be portrayed by Jennie Garth in a made-for-TV movie.
I’m also no expert on how to be a good inner-city school teacher with her paperwork turned in and half her students in a straight line.
Two years was not enough time for me to get my shit together. I don’t think three years would’ve been, either.
Here’s a question from Jessica:
