When I moved to Brooklyn, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
My very first apartment in Williamsburg, meant so many things to me at the time. It meant freedom, my first taste of independence - the way a child would look towards their future and think about all the endless possibility. It meant letting go and really feeling my way through life. I had no idea what I was doing, and I probably still don't, but what I know for sure now, is that Brooklyn helped raised me. In a way, moving here was the beginning of my becoming.
Brooklyn, brought me through the greater part of my twenties. I lived through my highest and lowest memories, right here, in Williamsburg, in my very own, pre-war apartment.
Everything from going to College (and all that really means), to getting dumped for the first time (it doesn't kill you and he wasn't worth it), figuring out that it all really starts with the right pair of shoes, moving at first, to a room with no windows (was it a closet?) and seeing the petrified look on my mother's face as she helped me unpack my boxes and clean the bathroom. To lighter moments that brought me back to life; the conversations on my living room floor with best friends, howling at the full moon on a strangers rooftop, dancing - sometimes falling - in the street to no music, laughing until we passed out, drinking until the same.
And, having photos to prove it all, you know, in case I'm old one day, worrying that I didn't live loud enough.
So, when I thought about what #OURNYC looked like, mine looked a lot like Brooklyn, walking the Williamsburg Bridge, kaiser rolls in the bodega, eating ice cream on the stoop, the diner where we will always all meet, street fairs, open fire hydrants on hot summer nights, watching the boys play handball, kids yelling in the street because school's out, short-shorts and sneakers, sunburn from bicycle rides, and the unofficial neighborhood watch; the ladies with the best gossip, who play solitaire outside my apartment building.