Here and now

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.

Here I am

"I found your old diary."

My mom was visiting me for my birthday, sharing girl talk and gourmet food with me to ring in my 22nd year.

"Um, what?"

Apparently, I'd given my childhood diary -- with Simba emblazoned on the front, I might add -- to my mom a long time ago. Oh, the silly choices that a high school girl will make in order to have more room for make-up in an old desk drawer... My mom laughed as she recalled what she'd found when she carefully turned the pages, which were stiff with glue from movie tickets and restaurant napkin rings that I'd pasted in as mementos.

Basically, every year, I wrote one entry. "Dear Diary, I am so sorry that I haven't written in you in sooo long," I would begin. Each entry was a time capsule, a seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old's idea of a year in review. I shared about the boys I liked at the moment, the classes I'd loved, and the adventures I'd had, promising to write again soon... only to fail miserably. Reportedly, one year, I even offered to name my diary, like a teenage boy naming his first car, hoping that personification might help to guilt me into logging my secrets more often.

I promise not to name my blog. And I promise not to offer any lame excuses about why all was quiet on the western front here this summer. I'm not even going to apologize.

You see, every time a friend or family member asked me why I hadn't blogged in a while this summer, I lamented that nothing exciting had happened to me. "What would I write about? I just sit at a desk all day," I constantly insisted. This is true. I did, in fact, slouch in front of a computer screen all summer. My summer internship taught me a lot. I know now that I need windows -- or, at least, that SAD can strike in the summer if you're inside all day. I know now that my hunch about not having the stomach for hard news was right-on. Telling tough stories is important; reporting on gut-wrenching crimes has its purpose. But it's not for me. I need joy. I need interaction.

I needed to learn about new media in a less sedentary, more innovative way. And grad school has granted me that opportunity. There is life beyond my computer screen, and experiencing it doesn't have to mean choosing a new career. It just means that I have to listen to my gut. I am a great reporter. I have a weirdly fierce love for women's lifestyle magazines. And I need to hold strong to that.

Or, as Mufasa would say, I just need to remember who I am.

I cherish my loved ones more than words can express. I bake when I'm stressed; I make a mean batch of cookies. I did, in fact, do a lot of cool things this summer -- sometimes even in the vicinity of my poorly-lit office. I love a good story, and I think everyone has one. I'm a New Yorker. I'm a daughter. I'm a friend. I'm a perfectionist. I'm a writer. I live every day with the goal of learning something new, and laughing along the way. I couldn't be prouder to be part of the young Jewish community. I believe in love. I believe in the power of my pen (or my keyboard?). I believe in beauty, and music, and prayer, and peace. My name is Rachel Liane Slaff, and this is next chapter of my life.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song. - Joan Anglund

Take care

"I don't care. Sorry, I just don't care!"

My best friend turned towards me, laughing, and asked, "Who are you, and what have you done with Rachel?"

You see, I always care. I care too much, in fact. I'm an ESFJ, in Myers-Briggs speak. I am always the hostess: I cook too much food, and I make you take home leftovers. I'm a fabulous Jewish mother-in-training. I claim to find good in even the nastiest of people; I get upset when everyone isn't able to get along and sing songs around the metaphorical campfire. I'm a social justice nerd, one of those freaks who actually believes that she can change the world. If nothing else, I care.

But, senioritis has officially kicked in. I have 3 weeks left. I am 4 assignments away from graduation. I only have 3 more Shabboses left at Hillel. I have 10 classes between me, and my cap and gown -- and I intend to make them count. I am going to pass all of my classes, so I officially don't care about trivial homework. I am leaving the cliques of this undergraduate community behind, so I truly don't have the patience for tangled red tape anymore. If a program doesn't succeed, or a class is boring, it's honestly no skin off my back.

Because -- actually -- I care very much about making these last moments count. I refuse to spend them fretting over event planning, he-said-she-said nonsense, or grades that won't matter 10 months from now. I care about cherishing this time with my friends. I care about carving these moments into my brain, so I'll have something great to tell my grandchildren someday. I care about making this second count. I care about my loved ones, about my friendships, and my dreams for the future. I care about the good times I've had, not the drama of days gone by; I care about the places we're going, not the mistakes we've made. I care about girls night out, and dinner in with friends, and sitting in the fountain at Washington Square Park. I care. I just don't have time to care unless it counts right now.

twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. so throw off the bowlines. sail away from the safe harbor. catch the trade winds in your sails. explore. dream. discover. --unknown

and, of course, care.

Whose line is it, anyway?

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...

I went to see As You Like It with N last night. I'd read the play back in high school; I remembered that it was funny, and that it was a love story. I'd forgotten its complexities, and I'd never really experienced its humanity. (There is, as my Comedies professor often chides my classmates and me, a difference between reading a play and seeing one.)

It was more than a love story - at least, it far exceeded the sappy and somewhat predictable norm of today's romantic comedies. Sitting in the audience, I was watching people change. These characters were falling in love, of course, but they were deepening family ties, establishing friendships, and figuring out their personal identities along the way. The characters matured on stage; they grew up and lived happily ever after in five whirlwind acts.

As Jaques presented her famous monologue about the cycles of life, I couldn't help but wonder - what act of life am I in? And am I ever going to get a script?

In other news, the tree outside my window is blooming. I love springtime in New York.

Long time, no type

I usually don't make official New Year's resolutions. Despite my penchant for to-do lists, I've always tried to live, love, and laugh with gusto every day - as opposed to being gung-ho for only the first two inspired weeks of each year.

Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)

It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.

But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.

After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.

Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.

A New World

In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.

My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?

Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.

In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.

So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")

Seasons of love

I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?

For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.

So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.

I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.

I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.

That Girl Had Gumption

On my way to work the other day, there was a young woman lugging a suitcase down the stairs at the subway station. I paused, to give her some time to get down the stairs, and then moved past her on the platform -- that's when I noticed that she had a white cane. She was blind.

Immediately, I was impressed. I usually have trouble maneuvering my suitcase, and I can see! I watched in bewilderment, in awe, as she calmly rolled her suitcase onto the L train.

I sat down across from her, shaking my head in amazement. I'd been running a bit behind that morning (sleeping in is great, until you get up and still have to arrive at work at the same usual hour) and was perturbed when I left the house with my hair damp and my cuticles ragged. At least I had my sight! The effort and the patience that this young woman had exerted in order to ride the subway that morning was beyond my comprehension, and I was immediately humbled.

I studied her as the train zoomed past the Union Square stop. (At first, I was embarrassed to stare - but then I realized that she couldn't see me.) She wore a purple newsboy cap, with gold hoop earrings and a pink tee shirt. She had a whistle on a lanyard around her neck, alongside a laminated card...I leaned to the right a bit so that I could read it.

CAN YOU HELP ME CROSS THE STREET?
Tap me on the shoulder if you can help.
I am blind and deaf.

I gasped. Oh dear G-d. How was she not scared out of her mind, riding the subway without being able to see or hear? How did she know when to get off of the train? How could she walk down the sidewalk in New York without being hurt? What could her life possibly be like?

I closed my eyes, just for a moment, to try to comprehend what riding the subway would be like in total silence and darkness. It was terrifying.

I looked up, aching inside for her, and turned towards her once more. She didn't seem scared. She looked happy, even. She was holding on to the rail contentedly...and that's when I saw her hands.

They were covered in red. At first, I thought it was blood, and I panicked. I narrowed my eyes, as if I could zoom in on her hands like a camera lens, desperate to figure out what was wrong. The red seemed to start at her fingertips, and it was shiny, almost glittery.

That's when I realized: it was nail polish. The young woman had apparently attempted to paint her nails herself, and nail polish had ended up all over her hands.

It took a heck of a lot of willpower, especially considering that I hadn't had coffee yet, for me to not cry. It was all just too heartbreaking and adorable. This girl was obviously determined to not be hampered by her disabilities, however challenging. She got up this morning, and, yes, it took effort, but she still chose to look her best. She still was determined to follow her glee. She was going to ride the train and carry her own luggage and paint her nails -- and nothing was going to stop her. She was going to stride through the crowds at Penn Station, blindness and deafness be damned.

As I watched her walk off of the train, I thought, "That is quite possibly the bravest person that I will ever see in my life." That girl had gumption.


Last night, the rabbi asked, "How did you get here? The answer is up to you. You can say you took the L train. Or, you can think about how you got to this point in time, this train of thought, this comfort level...just think about how you got here and how you're going to get to wherever you're going next."

I grinned, and thought of the blind and deaf woman from the L train. Her answer, no doubt, would be fascinating.

How did I get here? Well, Rabbi, where shall I begin? I decided that I would live in New York City around the age of 5. I told my mother that I wanted to be a journalist, in the car en route to Hebrew school from an orthodontist appointment, in 8th grade. I sat in a Mexican restaurant on Waverly Place when I was 17, and had a panic attack because I was afraid that I would get in to Columbia early decision and not be able to attend NYU (I am, I do believe, the first child to hope and pray that they wouldn't get into an Ivy...).

I realized that Reform Judaism wasn't enough for me anymore about a year ago; I decided that keeping kosher, despite its illogical ways, rang true in November, and I was finally able to pray, at Conservative services, in January. I considered joining JDate yesterday.

It took 4 internships for me to decide that I want to have a career in women's service magazines. It took my parents about 2 years of college to convince me that graduate school might not be such a bad plan after all. It took me 2 weeks to learn how to do all of the functions on the color copier at Good Housekeeping.

And, now, I'm turning 21 on Thursday. I'm taking the GRE for the first time on September 14th. I'm still waiting for my lobster (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WViFQiRgs0). I have a lot of traveling and writing and loving left to do; there are, undoubtedly, a lot more close calls and difficult decisions in my future.

How I got here is an amalgamation of hope and hard work and serendipity. Wherever I go next, I'd like to have the kind of bravery that a girl needs to paint her nails with her eyes closed.

Editing Carrie Bradshaw

I was watching TV on Saturday night, when one of my all-time favorite Sex and the City episodes came on. The very last line explains the whole half hour show, really: "Some people are settling down, some people are settling...and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies."

I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?

I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.

But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?

I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.

You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.

So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.

Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.

I happen to like this town

I went for a walk today...it was lovely.

I laughed at the girls in Ray Bans waiting in line for blocks and blocks just to get into some sample sale; I smiled at the old Latino men scraping ice to make snow cones on street corners. I window-shopped; I had major puppy envy; I picked out at least 10 places where my imaginary boyfriend and I will be going to brunch next weekend. I found a swimming pool, too, an unexpected oasis in the midst of the Lower East Side. And I giggled at the little boys who had tied their towels around their shoulders like superheroes as they ran down the sidewalk in their flip flops and floaties, the cheerful defenders of a beautifully hazy afternoon in the city.

I love summer. I always have. But today I realized that, as with basically all things in life, it's better in New York.

Learn to use a semicolon

I was waiting for some friends outside of a restaurant tonight, people-watching and window-shopping, when this little old couple passed by: an elderly man with thick glasses was pushing a very frail old woman in a wheelchair down the sidewalk. As soon as I saw them, I said a prayer. I do that - I thank G-d for my health, for the weather, for luck and friendship and hindsight and everything in between. I am, as they say in Sister Act II, down with G-O-D (yeah, you know me; watch this if you are so culturally illiterate as to not know what I'm talking about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wNmlrdCBkE).

So, there I was, smiling sadly at the elderly people as they went by and thanking G-d for my youth and energy and well-being...when the woman in the wheelchair began to hum. She smiled up at her husband, and serenaded him as they continued down the sidewalk together.

I quickly amended my prayer: thank you, G-d, for bringing these two people together and for blessing them with each other. Thank you for music, G-d. Thank you for peace. Thank you for breezy summer nights.

And thank you, G-d, for helping me learn to open my eyes, my mind, and my heart, so that I can know it when my guy comes along. Because, G-d, I've danced for nearly 20 years now, and I am totally going to have arthritic knees - I'm going to need someone to push me in my wheelchair as we go up Second Avenue together someday.

I was searching for a quote today at work and stumbled across this one, also known as my new to-do list:

1. the path is not straight.
2. mistakes need not be fatal.
3. people are more important than achievements or possessions.
4. be gentle with your parents.
5. never stop doing what you care most about.
6. learn to use a semicolon.
7. you will find love."
-Marion Winik

Some Jews live in tents, and some live in pagodas...

...and some Jews pay rent, cause the city's not free! Oh, Jewish folk songs...

Just got home from the Salute to Israel parade, also known as the sea of blue and white that flooded Fifth Avenue today. There were babies in strollers with Israeli flag bibs, Hebrew schools, synagogues, youth groups, and a truly impressive amount of college students. NYU had easily 30 people marching this afternoon to represent our Hillel (even if we didn't have matching tee shirts, whoops), alongside at least 10 other colleges; I was so incredibly proud.

We waved Israeli flags, cheered with an uncharacteristic amount of school spirit whenever it was announced that we were from NYU, and walked together in the sunshine. I have not felt as awed and blessed and excited by my Judaism since I was in Israel...it is moments like this afternoon that cement my need to be in New York, to be in this huge, crazy, vibrant community, to joyfully lead a Jewish life as fully as I can.

There were ultra-Orthodox Jews protesting the parade, too. They're there every year, with their signs and their black hats, protesting the existence of a Jewish state because the messiah hasn't arrived yet.

To most people, their presence is upsetting: one group of girls from NYU cheered and clapped and chanted "Am Yisrael Chai" even louder than usual as we walked by the protesters' spot in the shade at the south end of Central Park.

But I don't mind the protesters. In fact, I was oddly glad that they were there...whatever our reasons, the parade had brought all of the Jews in the area together. We disagree about so much (too much, sometimes, I think), but, regardless of our personal beliefs or points of view, we're all Jews. So, sure, there was tension today as we passed each other at the parade, but at least we were all in the same place for (more or less) the same cause.

Of course, it'd be nicer if we could all get along...but, then, if everyone was the same, our world would be ridiculously boring.

Amsterdam, Disney Land, Tel Aviv,
Oh, they're miles apart
But when we light the candles on Sabbath eve,
We share in the prayer in each one of our hearts

Hot child in the city

This is the third or fourth night this week that I've heard people sing "Happy Birthday" in the garden across the street...they laugh and listen to music, and tonight they popped champagne. They're celebrating and happy and very East Village chic, and it all seems so glorious that it takes lots of willpower to not throw on a sundress (instead of the schlubby sweats that I've been wearing all week as I work on my final papers) and crash their shindig ASAP.

I was absolutely positive that my 21st birthday was going to involve several jazz clubs, dancing, tons of friends, and cocktails galore. I wanted that sacred moment where you flash your totally legitimate photo ID at the bartender with pride.

Now, I'm reconsidering: my close friends and an ice cream cake in the garden seems so lovely. Flowers and laughter in the moonlight is very Midsummer Night's Dream a la 2009, and it seems so much more me than a night of bar-hopping, however traditional that may be.

There'll still be cocktails galore, though. Some things never change.