I was raised in what I thought was a middle class family: one working father, a stay at home mother, and one younger sibling all living under the same roof of a 1 bedroom apartment in NYC. It was, relative to the global standard of living at least, a good life. We always had food on the table, clothes on our back, and a roof over our head. My parents came from a country where roughly 30% of the people cannot make the same claims as I just did. My parents were sure to make me aware of that fact constantly and kept reminding me just how lucky I was to grow up in the United States – a country where the poorest 20% of its population are richer on average than most European nations.
It worked.
I genuinely felt lucky to be in the United States and in a country where so many opportunities are afforded to the average person. I even felt lucky when we were having the same four or five meals on rotation throughout the weeks, months, and years. This feeling was a double edged sword; on the one hand, it allowed me to free myself from worrying about the little things.
Me: Ugh, the subway is 10 minutes late?
Other me: So what? At least I have the option of going to school with the subway.
Me: Are we really eating chicken and rice again tonight?
Other me: Yeah, we are. At least we have something to eat.
On the other hand, it made me less sympathetic to others’ concerns.
Oh, my mom couldn’t pick me up from school in the car today.
Grow up. Take your ass home on the subway like the rest of us.
It also made me feel as if nicer things were a waste of money.
Given a choice of $100 Nike sneakers or $50 Fila sneakers, my mindset was to always go for the Fila sneakers since they were cheaper and looked like they were of the same quality.
Hint: they aren’t.
In the middle of these thoughts, something kept gnawing at me though. It seemed like everyone else around me had it easier despite my mindset. My classmates had their own room, their own privacy, their own thoughts, some form of say in the household, and seemed to be taking more vacations and liberties than my family did. Hell, it even seemed like they had an easier time controlling their body weight than I did. Once I noticed this, I began to wonder why that is. We’re all middle class families right? We’ve got the essentials that we need to live so why are our experiences so different?
Once questions like these are introduced in your head, they permeate into your psyche; you start to see experiences through a different lens and start to question whether you really are in control of as much as you thought you were. For someone with slight control freak tendencies and whose parents who made them believe that “your future is in your hands”, that is a harrowing thought.
Maybe I’m not in control as much as I thought.
I began to get angry. I was tired of having to work twice as hard to get what others were getting for half the effort. I started resenting my parents for not giving me a better life. I felt entitled to it after “doing everything right”. Growing up in that 1 bedroom apartment with three other adults didn’t help these thoughts. It further pushed me into anger and resentment. It meant that you couldn’t walk into the house after a long day of work or school without being harassed with genuinely phrased yet immediately annoying questions of “how was your day” or “what did you do today” or “who did you see today”? Ironically, I feel my own sense of apathy for the little problems creeping up on me as I type these very words.
Geez, get off my back for a second Ma. Let me shower, eat, and relax for a bit then we can chat.
My mom probably heard that line 1000 times. I know it hurt her when I said that but I just could not stand being questioned at the door.
That situation meant I had no privacy and no physical or mental corner to call my own – no place to release any steam. Where does steam go if it can’t escape? It stays contained, building pressure until a critical point is reached and an explosion ensues.
Imagine the anger already in a testosterone fueled teenage boy and add to it these feelings of anger, resentment, and containment. As they say, no bueno.
Seriously though, growing up in an environment where there was no physical or mental room to breathe plus having overbearing and overprotective parents made it feel more like a prison than a home. To me, a home meant comfort, it meant warmth, and it meant peace; I only got one of those growing up. I would go to my friends’ houses and see that they had their own room that they could decorate to their liking; they had a little space of their own to think, talk, laugh, and create in. They had a say in the house: if they didn’t want to go somewhere, they weren’t forced to. It felt natural and easy. It made me realize that maybe I wasn’t home or that I definitely wasn’t in my ideal home. I remember making a promise to myself that when I move out of my parents’ apartment, I would never come back. I wouldn’t come back to that life because I wanted a bigger life, a better life – a life without discomfort, worry, or stress.
Fast forward roughly 15 years and I’m 27, I have a good job, I make my own money, and I rented out an apartment in the same building with the apartment that I grew up in.
Welp.
I’d like to think that I kept that promise to myself but it feels like I didn’t; life feels a little too familiar and it’s scary. To me, staying in the same spot means stagnation. It means others have moved on to better things and you haven’t. Without turning this post into a piece for Darwinian capitalism, I want growth and it feels like the world came full circle and I’m standing in the same spot. All of the coffee shops, stores, and places I used to go to when I grew up in the neighborhood are still there. The people are just older. I just went to the supermarket that I worked in through college to pick up some groceries. The manager I worked with was there and he greeted me. The deli store I used to get milk from for my mom is still there; the man at the register in that deli is still there. My parents are two floors above me; they’re older too. When I stop by to say hello, I’m immediately reminded of my teenage years and how I walked into that door wishing I wasn’t there at times.
I feel guilty. I know my parents tried their best and I realized that when I moved out. I love them for it.
It feels as if I placed myself in a time machine, hit fast forward, and I plopped out the other side in a different apartment.
While the familiarity brings about feelings of stagnation, my living situation alleviates those feelings greatly. I live alone, the entire apartment is my own to decorate, I don’t have to talk to my girlfriend in the kitchen to get some privacy, I manage my own groceries and money. I do my own laundry, dishes, and cooking. I’m my own made man and that’s how I like it. I remind myself that it’s OK to look back on what you came from and appreciate what you did and didn’t have; being in close proximity to it doesn’t mean a return to it. It serves as a humble reminder of where I started and how far I have come.
If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. - Friedrich Nietzsche
I’m reminded of Nietzsche’s words here but I do not think the “abyss” is accurate here; I prefer to just call it home.