Rhapsody in Blue

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what might be the quantitative value of a song? I often find myself saying, “oh! I love this song; I’ve got great memories attached to it.” When this happens, I usually think of something that was playing at the end of a particularly successful date, or a poignant moment of triumph in my life. At this moment, I am listening to a particular piece that transcends all moments. For me, it has come to be the theme of my hometown of New York. I’m listening to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.

I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.

Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.

My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.

Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.

While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.

I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.