Recently, I was sitting in NYC's Washington Square Park. I've always been big on people-watching, and treat it as a relaxing pastime. Despite the blazing heat of that day, it never seemed to bother New Yorkers as they waded in the iconic decorative fountain and napped under the shaded comfort of the trees.
Mid-afternoon rolls around, and a young woman around my age seats herself no more than 10 feet from me. She props up a large sign by her side. "Tell me your story and I will write you a poem", it reads in neat, handwritten Sharpie. Moments later, a young man approaches her. He sits next to her and proceeds to tell a story—his story. I can't quite hear what he's saying, but his serious mannerisms and the girl's solemn nods of understanding and frantic scribbling made it seem like something he needed to have told out loud. After he's done speaking and she's done writing, she hands him the 4x6 sheet of paper she has been working on. He offers her monetary compensation—of which she graciously accepts—before shaking her hand and leaving.
This interaction intrigued me. And as she pulled out her snack—a small sandwich baggie filled with slices of mango—and took a bite, I couldn't help but stare out of awe as to how she's able to produce prose so quickly that describes so many different lives (and okay, I'll admit I was also feeling a bit tempted by the juicy fruit). She notices and offers me a smile, and I smile back. We have a brief though amiable and slightly humorous conversation as we were sitting fairly far from each other, and therefore had to semi-yell our statements. I tell her that I'd very much like to know where she got that delicious-looking snack, to which she informs me she purchases fresh from a street vendor.
Well, this is certainly one way to start a conversation, I think to myself, and left my spot to sit down beside her. She introduces herself—let's call her L.R. She's a college student majoring in journalism, and writing poetry for strangers is a side gig she does on her days off work during the summer. She offers me her poem-writing services, and I'm more than enthused to accept.
I tell L.R. what's on my mind.
"I've spent the past year studying, both abroad and domestically. The culmination of these experiences taught me life-changing lessons that have not only helped me flourish as a person, but have also allowed me to see into the world outside the bubble of my hometown.
When I came back home, everything felt different. It was like I changed, but the place that I've felt so 'at home' in for so long didn't, which I wasn't expecting. So now I just feel really restless, and the longer I remain in this stagnant place, the more I want to leave."
But at the same time, I want to stay, I think. Because I've seen what's outside of here, and I fear it.
I've written about this topic before, but it's something I've been thinking about a lot in recent months. I'm well aware that the worries I'm having are the same ones many other young adults face, which is why I've been choosing to share my thoughts about it through writing on this online platform. But sharing the "stuck-ness" I feel face-to-face with a stranger is way different; having what I say reverted back into written prose through their eyes is bizarre, yet oddly reassuring.
So while you all aren't the poem's primary audience, I thought that sharing it could in some way benefit those who are also struggling to come to terms with the inevitability of adulthood.
Below is the exact production of what L.R. wrote for me. I admire the conversational tone she maintains throughout the piece, and the metaphor she incorporates speaks volumes to how I've been reminding myself to embrace the act of growing up. So L.R., if you're reading this, thank you. I hope my monetary compensation goes tenfold in helping you fund your journey to journalistic success.
L.R. informed me that with every poem she writes, she hopes that its foremost intended reader is able to find a sense of comfort and relatability within its lines.
I did. And I hope you do, too.
"i'm a bicycle that keeps rolling,
the wheels go round and
round. but the path i am wheeling on isn't what i want
to drive on.
and i start to drive into potholes and pebbles,
rocky road,
and i am looking
to the view miles away
where i cannot ride a
bicycle, but must trust the will of my feet and knees.
and the sweet summer is feeling hot on my back
where it aches from the long bicycle ride.
i am not sure if this is right—
but it feels right.
i dismount my bike
and begin to walk to
the sea.
where wheels cannot cross." —L.R.
