EV Grief

Whew, I almost went the whole week without sending something! I admit, this week was busy and not the most inspiring, writing-wise. I couldn’t even bring myself to write something for a writing gathering, prompt “a place that means something to you.”

But after hearing everyone else’s pieces, I got that little spark of inspiration I needed to push me out of my rut. I went for a little walk and some lines popped into my head, the opening lines of a story! Read ‘em (and everything else that followed) below.

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My first couple months living here were…. not great. The prospect of moving to the East Village, which I had only known as a place where rich white yuppies lived and partied, was abhorrent to me. I did not want to leave Brooklyn — a point I had been adamant about until I realized I could not win. I even more so did nOT want to live in the East Village. Manhattan? Sure, I’m sure I could find a place I liked in Manhattan. I associated Manhattan with hustle and bustle, with chaos, with crowded sidewalks. I knew Brooklyn to be open, relaxed, a place that felt welcoming, like a place that held me and wanted me. 

In order to move to Manhattan, I said, I will need somewhere quiet. I will need an apartment that has light and has space. The East Village is the furthest thing from that. And yet here is where I ended up.

My first couple months here were full of anxiety and stress. Change tends to manifest in my body silently and sneakily, going unnoticed until months after the fact when I think to myself “Geez I’ve been crying a lot lately.” It seeps in, turning into unfelt anxiety until I am forced to feel it. Until one small thing sets me off. Until one sleepless night turns into two, into three. 

I hated it here. I hated that I had to fight through crowds of entitled white people just to get home. I hated that they felt more at home than I did. I hated that they all seemed to be enjoying their lives when I certainly was not, not right at that moment, at least. 

I moved here because my boyfriend loves it here. I moved here because we were moving in together and he could not imagine himself living anywhere else. He could not be happy in the city anywhere else. And I loved him enough to budge from my unwavering commitment to Brooklyn. So I switched my StreetEasy filters to select Manhattan spots only, focusing really on the East Village. 

We spent the next month or so apartment hunting. Oohing and ahhing at apartments here, scoffing at apartments there, adjusting our expectations with every one. It was disheartening and certainly a little depressing to see just how small these apartments were. The quintessential NYC apartment that everyone makes fun of. It’s not what I had envisioned for myself. 

Nor was a sixth floor walk-up. Yet here I am, six stories high, with buns and thighs of steel. It was the view that sold me. And the utter panic that we wouldn’t find anything remotely close to nice with the two weeks we had left. But truly, the view of the Empire State Building and the rest of midtown from my own bedroom window has not gotten old yet. You should see the view from the roof. 

A month or so ago, my boyfriend asked me whether I still disliked the East Village. I thought on it for a moment, then truthfully answered. “No.”

It’s still not perfect. My basic white neighbors are so basic it hurts. As it does every time they slam their front door or the guy (Tanner… eye roll, I know) screams FUCK at his computer (he plays some horse racing betting game that, yes, we found out about because he is SO LOUD). There are still hordes of even more annoying white people everywhere you turn. 

But there is also the Sunday farmers market with stalls and stalls of fresh produce and eggs and milk and bread, each one with a local vendor who is there every week, who knows some of the locals, who makes me feel like I am part of a community. We separate our compost now and drop it off at the market, too, something that makes me feel productive, more connected than just a singular person who lives in a place without any connection between the two.

There are the local coffee shops where we have become regulars and chatted with the owners and baristas, one even before most of the neighborhood even knew it was there. 

There is the little jazz trio that often posts up in Tompkins Square Park just half a block away. There’s the bar across the street that has live music every night that we can hear from our window. There’s someone out there playing a trumpet right now, offering a bright burst of joy in a gloomy, stagnant time. 

Then there is the local blog, EV Grieve, that documents it all. I’ve become addicted to this blog. Perhaps now you get the title of this post. I get to see and read about the goings on around me, learn about the shops nearby and their owners, check up on the hawks that live in the park, sharing our little neighborhood.

I still don’t think I could say with certainty I l o v e it here (have I complained enough about the white people yet?), but there are many moments where I do feel love and enjoyment from being here. I care about this neighborhood and its community, I want to know and be a part of it. 

I am glad for the space that we have made for ourselves here, our 480 square feet of cozy — filled with our things, our goals, our aspirations, our cooking. It’s this home that has helped this neighborhood feel more like my home and less a cause for grief.