I applied for my New York driver's license a few weeks ago, and today it arrived in all its holographic glory. I checked the tiny "anatomical gift" box on the back and carefully signed my name with an ultra-fine Sharpie. It's official: I'm a New Yorker now.
These streets are mine. The honking horns and golden lamplight just outside my window -- mine. Riverside Park -- my backyard. The greenmarket -- my grocery store. Those are my slushy sidewalks, my neon lights, my bike messengers. This is my city, at last, at last, at last.
As I gleefully examined my new license, memories of seeing Thoroughly Modern Millie flashed through my head: The Woolworth building, the MetLife Tower -- there's gold in them there hills, and I'm gonna get it or die trying! I was a teenager when Mom took me to see the show on Broadway. We had terrible seats, right next to a giant column, but we soaked in every second of Sutton Foster's spell-binding performance. I doubt that I've ever wanted a musical to come to life quite so badly.
I'm not 14 anymore, though. I'm a 20-something journalist, living in New York and studying with the greats. I'm surrounded by incredible friends and at last have found a Jewish community of my own. Oh, that I could go back in time and tell my teenage self to hang in there. Your city is waiting for you, I'd tell her. Your dreams are powerful and purposeful, and you're going to make them happen. Que sera, sera, I'd say.
I'm starting to understand why we have different dreams at various points in our lives. When I was 9, I proudly told everyone I met that I was going to be a pediatric cardiologist. It turns out that I am quite squeamish -- making medicine a poor career choice -- but I wonder if I'd have survived fifth grade with a teacher who said that science was "for boys" without my dream forcing me to believe otherwise. And would I have battled through high school without theater camp acting as my safe place? I'm no Sutton Foster. But would I have made it to NYU without my theater friends encouraging me to dream big, no matter how extraordinary my goals?
I'll be finished with grad school in a year. G-d willing, I'll be in my beautiful new apartment on the Upper West Side in a year, as well, with a new job lined up and excited to have me. I don't know where the next ten years will lead me, exactly. I'm sure that someday -- when I get married, when my first book is published, when my children are born -- I'll want to travel back in time to where I am today, to reassure my 22-year-old self. But I have enough hope to sustain me for now. I'm not done dreaming yet.
