Supposed

A smidgen of my life.

I am a city girl, or at least I am supposed to be. I was born in the New York Hospital and had a Cuban nanny as my second mother. I grew up on 71^st Street and Fifth Avenue in an apartment building with fifteen floors. The doormen knew me by my first name, and Central Park was my playground. Throughout all of elementary school, my breakfast consisted of a donut from the freestanding, Indian vendor on Madison Avenue. My mom and I would buy our breakfast and hail a cab for the twenty-one-block ride to my school. Every school day, I would exit the cab on the curbside, with my navy, patent leather Mary Jane shoes tightly strapped onto my feet leading the way, and my boney legs covered in semi-sheer navy tights that matched perfectly with my navy uniform. I would button my white school-issued oxford all the way to the top and strap my navy tunic right at the waist, where it should be. I never understood why girls would keep their top buttons unbuttoned or keep their belt hanging; why would you do that?

Every day I would watch the upper school girls walk into the big blue doors of the Nightingale-Bamford School as if they were walking onto the runway with their new Louis Vuitton purses or Christian Louboutin flats. And yes, in elementary school I did know those designers’ names, though not by choice. Why would you need a $700 pair of shoes to learn? Does holding a $1,300 purse help you retain more information? Did any of this stuff benefit you as a human being, or is it all just material? As a lost, misplaced adolescent, I did not understand.

The oddest part was I actually loved the city; who would not? I loved the fact that I could walk two blocks and get delicious Haagen Dazs ice cream, or even one block to a playground filled with the most adventurous of kids. I could even walk to Dylan’s Candy Bar and fill an entire bag with the sweetest of candies. What seven-year-old would not love that? Yet as the weeks went on and the drama set in, I knew I was not like the rest of the girls on the Upper Eastside.

In fourth grade, my entire class became heavily into trading pencils. Yes, pencils! Those half an inch wide, five-inch long, cylinder tubes that contain thin sticks of graphite that enables you to write. I thought it was the silliest thing in the entire world. Girls would gather around desks and gawk at two classmates debating over their trade. While the girls were monopolizing their pencil cases, I would be at my desk working on a worksheet or reading. Do not get me wrong, I did have friends; in fact, I had a lot of friends. Another defining fact about the private, privileged girls’ school in New York City is that cliques are established extraordinarily early in our Ivy-bound, predetermined lives. By the second grade there were three clear groups at Nightingale. The first group was the stylish, future-hedge-fund-spouse girls. They wore headbands of all different colors and nail polish that radiated their superiority. The second group was the unbuttoned, untucked, untied, loud girls. They would come into every class laughing and a mess. It was quite a sight. The third group was the “losers.” They were either smart or “socially-challenged,” as the girls would say. I, however, was in a constant drift between all the cliques. I was that indifferent, oblivious girl who wandered. I was a nomad among fifty prematurely judgmental elementary school girls. And I loved every moment of it.

Every Wednesday throughout elementary school, we got out of classes at 12:30pm, and I had a play date every single half-day. Most of the time, I had no idea who was going to accompany Nelly, my nanny, and me in my weekly trip to Ciao-Bella’s ice cream shop. Every Wednesday, I would ask Nelly who would be joining us this week, and then head back to pick up my playmate where a line of girls would be standing impatiently waiting for their non-American babysitters to escort them back to their impeccably clean apartments. Once I located my accomplice, we would venture across the street to Ciao Bella where we would wait for at least ten minutes to finally order. I would get one scoop of mint chocolate chip and one scoop of chocolate on a sugar cone with rainbow sprinkles every single week. It is still my favorite. Ordinarily, I was a very considerate and polite child, but this was my only exception. I would have to order first. I now apologize to all the girls that I pushed to the side in order to receive my delicious desert, but it was worth it. Once we paid, the three of us, Nelly, accomplice, and I, would sit on the red, patent leather stools and eat our ice cream. For ten minutes, I was in heaven. Depending on which classmate came along, we would talk about different happenings throughout the day, yet I secretly wished to eat my ice cream in peace. After finishing off our desserts, we walked the half block to the bus stop where we would ride from 92^nd Street to 71^st Street. Whatever happened the rest of the day rested on the weather, my mood, my playmates’ mood, and many other elements. These sequence of events happened weekly for five years of my adolescent life, and every single Wednesday, and every other day of the week, Nelly Cortez would be right there with me.

Nelly was the same age as my mother but looked years older. She exhibited deep wrinkles on her face that depicted her hard-lived life, yet she looked impeccable in my eyes. She had a gap on the left side of her mouth that defined her face for most people, but I never even noticed it. When I told her in May of 2004 that I would be moving fulltime to my country house in Pine Plains, NY, she was absolutely thrilled for me. That is who Nelly was. She was altruistic and compassionate. She did for others much more than she did for herself. She was an angel, and I was in absolute devastation that I was leaving her. Because I spent every day with this incredible woman since I was six months old, she left a huge mark on my heart.  She was my second mother but first in my mind. Nelly left footprints on my heart that continue to manifest today. This woman with a heart for three and compassion for the entire world to share was leaving my life. I would miss her more than anyone; I do miss her more than anyone.

In May of 2004, Nelly Cortez was not the only person I was nervous to tell of my leaving. I had two real best friends at Nightingale, Maisie Kiser and Margaret Curtis. Through all the drama, the cliques, and the pencil trading, we stuck together as three good friends. Maisie was friends with everyone. We called her the mother of our class. Margaret, however, was in the “messy girl” crowd, but on the weekends, we were almost inseparable. I remember it was a Friday night when I broke the news. Maisie came over to my house, and we walked five blocks north to Margaret’s house with my mom. Those five blocks felt like a lifetime of walking, and I was in an increasing state of anxiety. The entire way, I was thinking of the best way to tell Maisie and Margaret. I even remember thinking to myself, “I’ll just tell them my mom is making me!” But I knew that was a lie. I hate lying; I could not. The words kept trying to come up like word vomit. I was a bomb waiting to explode.

Once we arrived at Margaret’s house, my anxiety was at its peak. I quickly asked them if we could go to Margaret’s room and talk. They looked at each other with suspicious eyes and said, “Sure!” We entered the room, and I leaned against the window, Maisie sat in the desk chair, and Margaret sat cross-legged in her bed. “What’s up?” Maisie inquired. “I’m not coming back to Nightingale next year, guys.” I looked towards the ground and continued, “My mom and I decided to move to our country house full time.” While Margaret looked at if she had just seen a ghost, Maisie said, “Well Catty, if that’s is what you want, then I am happy for you! I’m glad you’re moving.” I smiled in relief. Maisie was so mature for her age, and she was an amazing friend. I knew she would support me in whatever I chose. Margaret quickly turned to Maisie and said aggressively, “Are you kidding me? You want her to move? That’s so mean! Catherine, I cannot believe you are doing this to us! How could you?” I was stunned. I stood there, eyes wide, eyebrows bent inward in complete shock. I knew her reaction was not going to be the most positive, but that was completely out of line. How was I doing that to her? How could she think I was in any way, shape, or form, moving out of the city to hurt her? My mouth opened in an attempt at an explanation, but nothing came out. After a couple of second I said, “I’m sorry. I think my mom’s calling me. I have to go.” I left her room with my face just as shocked as Margaret’s was. My hands were hanging numbly by my sides, and my feet felt detached from my body. What kind of friend would say that? Certainly not one I ever wanted to be friends with, especially best friends.

From that day on, the entire dynamic of our relationship altered. Margaret and I would pass each other in the hall and pretend not to see one another. Maisie then had to balance the two of us on different hands; we were no longer the three best friends. I realized from then on what it was to be a friend, a real friend. A real friend stands by you through it all. A real friend supports you in everything you do. Most of all, a real friend is selfless.

I was a city girl, or at least I was supposed to be, but after moving to upstate New York where there are more horses and cows than people, I found that the only girl I am supposed to be is me. Yes, I grew up learning that you are not supposed to wear white after Labor Day because it is unfashionable, and Christian Louboutin heels are supposed to line the floor of your closet, but I also found that those “facts” only matter if you want them to. I love the accessibility to everything I love in New York City, but I also love to breathe in the fresh, clean air of the countryside.  I was always somewhat lost among the high expectations of the Upper Eastside, but now I can finally find my way. I found that you do not need to be classified as any stereotype of a girl: city-girl, country-girl, messy-girl, loser, or girly-girl; I found that it is all right to simply be myself. My dad once told me, “You are an artist of being alive.” I now realize that no matter where I am, I can still be myself and paint the future whatever color I choose. Life is a blank canvas, and I do not only have black and white to choose from. I have the entire rainbow. 

Reviews

[The Perfectionist]

It feels almost more like a poem than a story; it has a very natural poetic carefreeness about it that's actually rather refreshing. The other reason it feels more like a poem is because if I judge it as a story, it actually kind of sucks. It's a snapshot that with no context just kind of sits there. That's almost universally the realm of poetry and while this story isn't exactly bad by any stretch, it's weird in that way and a little unsatisfying.

One typo that I saw, "I would miss her more that anyone" You mean more than anyone. (I do that one all the time, don't know why. The t and the n aren't close to one another)

[A.Lee]

I like this!! You did an excellent job with this little memoir. I love that you used all the brand names of everything which really helped solidify your point as far as what type of lifestyle you were surrounded by. Excellent work. Great write all around.