47. Love Letter to a Place
“Dear New York, this is a love letter / to you and how you brought us together”
In this moment of suspension, we invite you to compose a tribute to your city or hometown or the area code you rep, be it in prose or painting—or your own Beastie Boys’-style rap. If you haven’t, you can check out the video for their song “An Open Letter to NYC.” The lyrics hit home for New Yorkers after 9/11 and feel particularly poignant now, too.
Dear New York, this is a love letter
to you and how you brought us together
. . .
I see you're still strong after all that's gone on
Lifelong, we dedicate this song
Just a little something to show some respect
To the city that blends and mends and tests
Since 9-11 we're still livin'
And lovin' life we've been given
Ain't nothing gonna take that away from us
We lookin' pretty and gritty 'cause in the city we trust
Prompt:
Write an open letter to the city you love, or the area code you rep. It could be the one you grew up in or the one that feels the most like home. Start with: “Dear [name of place], this is a love letter.”
Allison Howells
Location: Austin, Texas
About: I've grown up in Austin, Texas nearly all my life and I'm so glad that I did! A popular saying here is "Keep Austin Weird" and well, we take it pretty seriously. This weird city holds such a special place in my heart, and it felt fitting to write a poem dedicated to the wonderful city that raised me.
Age: 20
Anonymous
New Jersey,
This is a love letter. For the way you always welcome me back with open arms. You’re a time warp, a time capsule.
In the library lives my middle school summers. A part of me is still sitting on the floor of the young adult’s section, getting lost in book covers.
I learned about shame in your Catholic school cafeteria. Guilt and faith and God – the things that raised me. I walk through those walls and sink back into the hope that there’s someone who can save us.
I walk the same streets like a broken record – 50 days in a row. The sun is brighter. The grass is greener here.
In some ways, I will always be
skipping familiar cracked sidewalks with my bike tires, trailing a tipsy Mom to town fireworks, walking down our hill in a mess of Christmas eve feelings, eating bagels on MS walk mornings or hotdogs at backyard birthday parties, driving my friends down the shore for the first time
– muttering a prayer with every lane change, having my first kiss beside a trampoline, leaving.
There is something about a Met’s baseball cap, orange flip flops on the train ride back from New York City, rush hour traffic during the summer, my father’s stupid grin, Mom waiting at the window, my brothers – things that need to be protected.
I remember now that I used to have a whole life with you. I fell in love in your parks, cried along your highways. All the growing up I did, I did it here.
Now, you are a holding cell. You are a memory. You are honeysuckle summer days. Dairy Queen. The worst winter and red wine.
You are everything.
Love, G.
Helen Giano
Location: Queens, NY
About: I am a person in the world finding inspiration in everything, but particularly NYC- a city that is its own living, breathing entity that continues to inform and shape my little corner.
Age: 44
Dear New York:
I love you. I love that you've always been the backdrop to my biggest aspirations. I can see you every morning walking over the hill on 28th street, my own cinematic start each and every day.
I miss the the anticipation of going underground at 59th street and hitting the island. I long for the crazy stew of people and the charged air. I miss bumping into my friends.
I miss going somewhere with no plans and having it be one the most memorable days (or on more than one occasion day stretching into night. If you have the stamina the city will provide!)
I miss stumbling upon interesting things. I miss covertly observing people on the subway. Everyone trying not to make direct eye contact, but sneaking glances at what people are carrying, reading, wearing.
I miss the dividing lines of neighborhoods. I miss the the intersections. I miss showing my kids my stomping grounds.
I miss keeping up and laughing when I can't. I long for complete strangers chiming in when giving directions and coming to a consensus.
I miss that you give to get respect- and if people meet you half way on your terms everyone thrives.
But New York, you are wounded and hulled out right now. It breaks my heart. I love you. We'll mend together.
Julie Ocken
Location: portland, or
About: i've lived in Portland almost exactly 20 years; i've grown and learned so much here. i work for the City [government] now and feel more dedicated than ever to help this place i love become a place everyone loves. and that loves everyone.
Age: 43
dear Portland, this is a love letter.
you've received lots of them over your many years i'm sure, but this is my first one to you, almost exactly 20 years into calling you home.
thank you. for letting me experience you and your opportunities. work and play and individualness. for coupled-time and solo time. for letting me grow into the julie i have always been but always needed a little push to get to fully. for inspiring me with your hundreds of acres of in-city parks, rivers, forests, open spaces. for art in so many forms. for music in so many genres. for sports and play. for letting me work for and with you to make this place more and more open and available to our ever-growing and ever-changing dwellers and visitors.
i love you, Portland. you are a beautiful, wild place. you are growing up into a more welcoming, understanding place, about which i'm so happy to be able to help and move forward. you are small-town and big-city offerings.
you are distinct neighborhoods and a cityscaped downtown.
you're my blanket. you've been with me through love, divorce, relationships of so many kinds. you've shared my best friends and allowed me to make new ones who i love. you've changed so much. as have i. hopefully both in ways that are generally better than before.
let's continue to learn and grow and share. with each other and with and for others.
<3, j
Maggie Skorup
Location: New York, New York
About: I have spent the majority of our 2020 quarantine outside of my home city of New York which was quite unexpected. In some ways, it has been very sad for me to be away from a newly furnished apartment that I was so happy to call my home and, of course, away from the people who have brought the city to life for me over the past 5 years. In coming back to the slowly re-emerging city, I felt moved to write about the transformations I see happening both in me personally and in the collective patterns of city life.
Age: 27
Dear New York City, this is a love letter.
To the place that changed me, who watched me grow up from a little girl in the suburbs of Virginia to a more mature woman. A version of myself who is more aware of and open to the world, drawn to the beautiful nuances of the city - the rush of opportunity, the unmatched energy, the endless savory selections, the inspiration and questioning that comes from living amongst a more diverse body of incredible individuals and communities.
In some ways, you are the hardest place to live, but so so worth it. No one can really understand you until they’ve done the 5th floor walk-up with groceries, Felt sweat gathering on their brow in the stifling summer subway platform heat before a date, Done $1 pizza nights and been stuck in traffic crossing east to west, Had countless apartments without washing machines and central air.
You are at a rare moment in time and in history: Restaurants spreading into the street, Almost like Europe but still with the familiar smell of summer-heated trash. A lot of funny rooftop people watching, Every outdoor object becoming a workout tool, A lot more moving trucks spotted up and down the block, So many masks - a sea of masked faces crossing the street to avoid close proximity. Boarded up 5th Avenue, And the art popping up over the boards, Colors bringing “black lives matter” and “can you still find love this summer” to life.
For me, routine is gone. No more morning commutes, squeezing into subways and soaking in the city energy, No more summer flings and rooftop hangs and spontaneous city friendscapades. Replaced with BQE traffic signs overhead and indeed, “We are NY strong” “Wear a mask or Fuhgeddaboudit.”
It feels like a goodbye of sorts, Even though I will come back one day. An end of an era, A real shift in NYC life marked by uncertainty, sadness, fear, real change.
My goodbye-for-now tour: Gelato from Eataly, Sparking memories of going a few years ago on a sticky summer night during a Madison Square Park date. Momoya and Keste and Van Leeuwen, Walking Meatpacking’s cobblestone streets and into the village of dreams from a past life. Seeing the Staten Island Ferry and bridge and skyline in the distance, FiDi in all of its sunset sailboat glory, The Empire State Building flashing rainbow in celebration of Pride, Thank you for giving me my first real NYC bedroom window view.
Mourning what would have been, what could have been,
But every cell in my body grateful for such a vibrant 5 years with you. Oh, New York, I will always love being able to call you my home.
Megan Arizmendi
Location: Santa Monica, CA
About: The inspiration for this journal entry is my family ranch in Yosemite. For many reasons, it holds a very special place in my heart. It's home.
Age: 26
Dear YMR,
Have I ever told you that I love your creaky floors, your colorful doors? Red, green, orange, yellow. The doors that stay open throughout the day, peeking in to find the smaller families of one larger family. All generations, many who know every detail, every wrinkle of this cabin that sits far from civilization. They are the ones whose names are carved into the chestnut walls next to pencil drawings of their first catch in the big lake - faded over time. I see my mom’s name from decades ago. She had long legs and prescription glasses that were unusually strong at a young age. Long wild hair and a smile that resembled the women in her life, but a sternness that she got from her father.
She grew up with 2 brothers, one older one younger and the outdoors were her home. Her horse was her love. The one she imitated to me at a young age, clicking her tongue to make her 4 children laugh. She had a natural femininity about her, but she was strong. She is strong.
Walking through the main lodge, footsteps on these creaky floors. Swinging open the door, it’s rusted hinges sound. Not even a mouse can sneak through these narrow hallways without being noticed. The door opens and the dry air immediately touches your face, your lips, the dust makes it’s way quickly up your ankles, and there’s always a smile to greet you across the way. Laughter, a nickname. “Hi Buck!” The front yard is vast and golden yellow during the summer, dried lavender and fire-burned tree trunks overwhelm the thin air. Small trees are scattered with tart low hanging apples to pick. These trees measure time and age.
The rusted green jeep sits in the dusty drive-way, the breaking leather seats have withstood all of our feet as children. We tip-toe, small hands clasped on the overhead bar that offers a sense of security as we drive to find bears and deer in the early hours of evening. 9 kids laughing as one of our dads drives too quickly down these beaten paths. The sound of rocks clink against the jeep’s hunter green frame.
For now, the green jeep rests in front of the Chafee house. The house we’d stay up to whisper about as kids in the cold nights, old fashioned lanterns the only source of light to illuminate our sunburned skin, our chapped lips and our bright eyes. Holding these stories tightly in our hands to keep for our future families. A creak and exchange of frightened eyes followed by irrepressible laughter. Shhh! We share beds to keep warm and feel safe with our cousins who we call our best friends. We are lucky.
Our days here begin with coffee-stained chatter in the main lodge. Jumping out of the twin beds before your eyes have adjusted to the light that filters softly through curtains. Curtains that have framed these windows for years, and I’m sure will remain when we have kids ourselves. You walk into the big room where the early risers and younger children have made themselves comfortable, and everyone smiles. It’s the best part of the day and we decide to sit and chat for hours - taking turns to tell stories that make us laugh, make us thoughtful, keep us grounded and forever connected despite our differences in age.
We eat the French toast that we’ve been dreaming of all year, as some move a few feet toward the puzzle scattered on the round table, some leave early for a hike, some continue to listen and sit contently.
Around noon, we’ve all made our way to the big lake, taking the familiar trails indicated by the green triangular YMR signs that match our jeep. We scoop up the ice cold water with our hands - water that seemed infinite when we were kids. The rope swing still hangs from the tree to the right. Looking past it, you can see the wide open patch of grass where we might eat dinner later tonight. The older ones will share whiskey and wine and the younger ones will wear raccoon hats waving sticks that resemble swords and later on listen intently to more stories that are spoken over the fire. The air gets colder and the blue light becomes black, sad that another day has already passed but ready to wake up again. The next day won’t be much different, but nonetheless it carries an excitement and brings us all closer by the minute.
Have I ever told you how thankful I am? Thankful for your timelessness, thankful for your vastness yet sense of home and containment. I’m thankful for your tree across the lake that will forever hold my brother’s carved initials MGA, along with some of my favorite memories as the 4 of us. I’m thankful for your lessons on the outdoors and big world that lays ahead of us. For teaching me how to take a bee’s stinger out of my toe, how to appreciate the scrapes from tree branches, how to catch a fish, how to love and be loved. Thankful for the sense of constant. For holding our vivid memories and creating space for more to come.
Sandy Hess
Location: Fairport, NY
About: I have been inspired by the unique beauty of trees and flowers for years. Highland Park is the site of an annual Lilac Festival created to celebrate the hundreds of trees that bloom there each Spring. It is an awakening in the city that was altered this year due to social distancing.
Age: 61
Dear Highland Park,
I write because the lilacs are blooming. The freedom to inhale the smell and see the beauty is changed because of a virus. I know they’ll remain strong, that you’ll carry them through your majestic presence in the heart of the city. I write because I miss the awakening of Spring. I know you are waiting, nurturing the paths. A humble patience is keeping you strong because renewal takes courage. I long for the freedom you offer but must wait. Until it is safe to arrive and breathe in your beauty know that I believe in you.
Love -Sandy
