Most people thought it odd that a girl from New Tripoli, born and reared among the cows and cornfields of rural Pennsylvania would choose chaotic life in the Big Apple over the simplicity of our small town. To me, however, it made perfect sense. I never felt comfortable here, ostracized for my voracious reading habit and my love of "old people" music like jazz and opera. Like the Europeans who immigrated to New York in the 19th and early 20th centuries, I yearned to break free from everything I knew and embark on a quest for culture, excitement, and opportunity.
It will be four years ago next weekend that I stood outside Stabler Arena and shed tears with classmates after our graduation from Northwestern Lehigh High School. The tears were not of sadness, however; they were tears of joy. As we snapped our post-graduation family photographs, the one thought in my head was, "Freedom, at last!"
Everything was set: At the end of August, I would leave the sheltered Lehigh Valley and head to New York University in the heart of New York City's Greenwich Village. It was a childhood dream come true.
Most people thought it odd that a girl from New Tripoli, born and reared among the cows and cornfields of rural Pennsylvania would choose chaotic life in the Big Apple over the simplicity of our small town. To me, however, it made perfect sense. I never felt comfortable here, ostracized for my voracious reading habit and my love of "old people" music like jazz and opera. Like the Europeans who immigrated to New York in the 19th and early 20th centuries, I yearned to break free from everything I knew and embark on a quest for culture, excitement, and opportunity.
I easily found all three. I interned for a former president of the United States, abandoned car culture for the subway and comfortable shoes, danced in clubs until 11 a.m., and shared wine and cheese with strangers at free performances of the Metropolitan Opera in Central Park. I also got mugged and had nasty confrontations with lots of bizarre characters—villains even—but those things come with the territory. I fell in love with the city, unconditionally.
So, why come back? Simple. When I entered college, the yen had nothing on the dollar, some of my peers made more money than their parents, thanks to the dot-com industry, and the nation was oblivious to corporate America's creative bookkeeping. In short, the economy was booming. I had no doubts that I'd get my bachelor's degree in politics and begin my dream job after a post-graduation backpacking trip across Europe. I had it all figured out, down to the part where said dream job paid for both graduate school and a duplex apartment in swanky Tribeca.
The day that I stood on the roof of my Lower East Side tenement and watched the World Trade Center crumble to the ground was the day my vision of post-collegiate utopia became unachievable. In the days following the disaster, New York underwent a metamorphosis. Morale and the stock market fell as quickly as the twin giants that sunny September morning. Suddenly, a gigantic crater replaced the financial epicenter of New York City and the nation went to war seeking revenge. But the damage had already been done. With the shattering of national security, financial anxiety and monetary uncertainty replaced economic prosperity and fiscal confidence.
Over the next two years, I watched anxiously as the economy fell apart. There would be no guarantee of a dream job, let alone any job willing to pay a recent college graduate enough money to feed herself in the most expensive city in the nation. With each slight decline of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, the idea of returning home to my parents' house seemed less a sign of failure and more a logical action.
As the end of my lease quickly approached and my massive outpouring of resumes remained unanswered, I decided the wisest thing would be to head home to a place where rent is free and beer is insanely cheap—at least until I devise a new plan.
Returning to the Lehigh Valley has been more of a culture shock than moving to New York. Political opportunities are non-existent, everyone drives a car and neglects the sidewalks, clubs close early, and to most, opera is considered an annoying form of music sung by obese women in Viking hats. But I have come home, and there's much to be said for that.
Home is a warm house in a quiet, peaceful locale and a never-ending supply of food. Home is where I watch the cataclysmic state of world affairs from the comfort of my La-Z-Boy while searching for a job in Washington, D.C., the only place where "degree in politics" appears under "Qualifications" in job listings. Home is where I can enjoy the company of friends in a similar situation, treading water until someone throws us employment lifesavers so we can begin our lives.
Jessica Hemerly lives in New Tripoli.
