Ode to Boston

It was a Boston summer. Celtics-green adorning storefront windows and the backs of lifelong fans. Bleary eyes on the morning T commute. Saturday afternoons spent reading and people-watching in the Gardens, dropping a dollar in the saxophonist's jar. Evenings along the Esplanade, silhouettes of sailboats and the MIT dome against the backdrop of the setting sun. This year's internship had brought me here. For two months, I spent my days learning about and contributing to the city's conservation efforts. It was fulfilling and important work, but the lessons that linger are the ones I found between branches, amongst new and wonderful company, within stolen moments of solitude.

—

While in Boston, I read Ling Ma's Severance—an apocalyptic novel, a satirical commentary on capitalism, a late-stage coming-of-age, and a love letter to New York City. As these things tend to go, this book found me at just the right time. I, too, felt myself caught in the tedium of routine, of gym classes work clock out come home cook dinner study, of looking out my window every morning and seeing the same view of West Lafayette's perpetual construction projects. I, too, found myself constantly competing against (while also giving in to) the invisible strings of consumerism, always reaching for, never needing. I, too, found myself nursing an aching heart, surprisingly (but then again, not so surprisingly) tender after an abrupt end to six months with someone I'd become quite fond of.

I finished this book while sitting on the patio of Caffè Nero—the tinkle of the bell above the door signaling a sleepy Bostonian made new, the Sunday shoppers making their rounds on Newbury assuring me that capitalism is, indeed, alive and well. Conversations from neighboring tables made their way to me, and I enjoyed hearing about how dinner went with the in-laws last night, how difficult it is finding a babysitter in Cambridge on a Friday night, about the new pub that opened in Somerville we have to try next weekend, how they're still together even though he can't remember how she takes her coffee and she can't stand his friends, about the cucumbers and peppers finally coming up in the garden that will probably be ready to pick by next week. Every now and then, I gave my eyes a break from the page, taking in the surrounding bustle—the parents pushing strollers and the joggers skirting crowds, the corner vendors selling overpriced yet tantalizingly fresh cups of fruit, the steps of the Brandy Melville filled with men waiting dutifully while their daughters wives girlfriends sisters shopped inside, the frenchies and goldens dozing under restaurant tables and helping their owners decide which moisturizer to buy—the people at, but also who make, the heart of a city.

It occurred to me that afternoon, not for the first time, how deeply I love living in a city. I spent the summer after my sophomore year in Indy for a writing internship, and I was as shocked as I was pleased to find that I actually kind of adore the capital of my home state. When I found out I was moving to Boston, I knew I was going to love it. High praise was sung for the city on a hill by anyone who learned I was headed for the East Coast, and I could not wait to find out for myself whether the rumors were true (they were) and if they really say "wicked" (they don't). Boston, briefly: bodega cats, brownstones, Boston Public Library Concerts in the Courtyard, fireworks on the Esplanade, dip 'n' dots in the oldest MLB stadium in the nation, hydrangeas and cobblestones, late nights in the kitchen with roomie and her MIT boyfriend, walks to Trader Joe's🤗, pulling in to Downtown Crossing just as the Red Line does (today is a good day), tapping my CharlieCard, On the T in my headphones, FaceTime calls to Indy every day after work and voice memos from bookie (that poor deer..), unrelenting heat and downpours that cling to your skin long after you've showered and sunsets that make you forgive the day.

Living in a city might be the best thing I've done for myself in recent years. Each city is a chance to make a home, to meet new people and experience different lifestyles and broaden horizons, to get to know yourself in new ways. I love the noise and volume of a city which allow you to ignore yourself and your own life when you need to. I love, equally, that a city is a place of humanity, so you're never far from an external circumstance to reflect inward or a mother and daughter to remind you of your own childhood. A city is impatience and no mercy, yes, but it is also ways you learn to be with yourself. A city is culture and exploration and garbage and billboards and self.

Toward the end of Ma's novel, she writes this delightful paragraph that I want to share with you now:

To live in a city is to live that life that it was built for, to adapt to its schedule and rhythms, to move within the transit layout made for you during the morning and evening rush, winding through the crowds of fellow commuters. To live in a city is to consume its offerings. To eat at its restaurants. To drink at its bars. To shop at its stores. To pay its sales taxes. To give a dollar to its homeless.

To live in a city is to take part in and to propagate its impossible systems. To wake up. To go to work in the morning. It is also to take pleasure in those systems because, otherwise, who could repeat the same routines, year in, year out?

As of now, I wouldn't settle down in Boston permanently. It lacks the charm of my beloved Chicago and was surprisingly.....white for a major city. But I know where to go for the most divine ube latte and very romantic locations for an evening stroll. And hey, Boston University is one of the law schools I applied to, so Boston, you might get another chance to make your case.

—

One of my favorite takeaways from my internship is the sassafras tree. Its leaves resemble the footprints of a forest critter or the prongs of a fork, their shape ranging from two to five lobes. As the tree grows upward, the lobes of its leaves diminish: more lobed leaves are found on the lower branches, where the tree begins, than in the upper branches. As the tree ages, it simplifies.

Since learning this fact, I have been unable to shake it from my mind, to live any life other than one that reflects this biology. As I get older, this comes more and more easily to me. I understand, now, that I get the most out of life when I am completely at ease with myself, when I block out the din, when I keep my circle small and my time precious, when I go for walks in the woods and stay in on Friday nights and watch my hazelnut coffee creamer dissolve the dregs of early-morning sleepiness. I understand, now, that life need not be painstaking or complex to be worthwhile.

—

New city, compulsory coffee crawl. I spent all summer studying for the LSAT; to dull the pain, I made every weekend a coffee shop adventure☕️🗺️⭐️. Here are the ones I can remember:

• Greystone

• Tatte

• home.stead

• Beacon Hill Books & Cafe

• Farmers Horse Coffee

• Gracenote

• Ogawa

• Render Coffee

• The Thinking Cup

• Phinista

• Pavement Coffeehouse

• PRB Boulangerie

• Faro

• George Howell

• Jaho

• Dunkin' (had to)

This was an expensive endeavor and some were certainly better than others, but you know what they say. Anything in the name of the perfect latte.

—

I stumbled across this poem by Aaron Smith that I wish I didn't like. But I applied to this internship back in March and at the time he mentioned maybe coming up for a weekend to visit because New Haven is only a train ride away and I let myself imagine what it would be like to show him around my city. Then June came around, we hadn't spoken in weeks, and I laid my vision to rest. Yet in the early days, I found myself, in moments both infrequent and deliciously bittersweet, wishing we were enjoying my apartment view of the Boston skyline and my evening walks through the Emerald Necklace and my stories about coworkers and roommates and strangers together.

Of course, I went on to have the most wonderful summer, and I know now that I wouldn't change a thing about it. But I also suspect we would have had the most marvelous Boston weekend together.

I've been meaning to tell

you how the sky is pink

here sometimes like the roof

of a mouth that's about to chomp

down on the crooked steel teeth

of the city,

...

listening to the buzz of street lamps

at dusk and the crush

of leaves on the pavement,

Without you here I'm viciously lonely

and I can't remember

the last time I felt holy,

the last time I offered

myself as sanctuary

—

I had one of my favorite days toward the very end of the summer. Another intern, with whom I had only exchanged vague pleasantries until this point, asked me if I wanted to go to an outdoor music/art market together. He must have sensed I never turn down anything music.

The market was happy and lively, and I was glad to be there. What a privilege to experience a city in the company of someone born and raised on its seasonal pleasures and hidden gems. We enjoyed the sounds of music and giddy shrieks of kids at the face-painting stand. Exiting the market, we made our way to a small church he knew was just a few blocks away. He pointed out his old elementary school across the street. Through the gate: a grassy backyard, a picnic table under the shade of a tall oak. We sat there, talking and eating our baklava (I now think of him briefly and fondly when I enjoy baklava). A lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Eventually, we made our way back to Fenway. We walked through the Victory Gardens, and he showed me the vegetables he was growing in his. Sitting on a nearby bench, we talked music, writing, travel, tattoos, Toni Morrison, photography. He showed me his favorite tree in Boston; I felt the intimacy of being let in on this secret haven as he explained the comfort and ease of sitting under its canopy.

Today, still, I feel very grateful to him. For showing me new corners of Boston, for bringing me closer to the city, for giving me a full day of good conversation and food and music, for being a new light on in my new home.

—

I can't mention lights in homes without mentioning Gabe, the chillest coworker and person I met in Boston. No competish. I am thankful for our conversations about which Hunger Games districts we'd be in (probably skater vibes), how to properly soak dishes in the sink, and what we'd catch in our spiderwebs. I hope Cafe 472 still hears our cackles echoing off the walls, its tiny dining area doing nothing to mask our decidedly not-PC jokes.

Our friendship—peach milkshakes on the Boston Public Library steps, lunches in the park, a beach blanket type vibe, eye contact at work when ANYONE (....) said something stupid—is one reason I enjoyed Boston as much as I did. I miss you (and Jarius), but I know we'll be reunited.....when you come to Indiana. Until then, I trust that life is lifing.

—

My Boston summer recap is missing one thing......Some of you already know what I'm going to say (for which I adore you), but for those who don't: Ginkgo biloba. I learned about this tree species at my internship and fell in love with it immediately.

Making its debut on Earth over 200 million years ago, the ginkgo predates the dinosaurs and is here, still, despite the asteroid, the ice ages and the dawn of the human species, the invention of war and philosophy and Chipotle burrito bowls. She's the oldest lady in town, and I try to tap into a little bit of her resilience when I feel myself losing perspective to classes, law school applications, uncertainties of the future, feelings for people who don't feel the same way, commitments I made when I was feeling more ambitious.

There comes a day in late autumn when the ginkgos perform their annual drop. Having outlasted their angiosperms—the maples and oaks which shed their leaves over several weeks—ginkgos, a gymnosperm, prefer the more dramatic flair of an Irish goodbye, leaves falling in cascades of unison, as if in one consent. I love the all-in. I feel keenly that perhaps my biggest fear is a lukewarm life, that I would rather fall short of the expectations I set for myself than do anything aimlessly or half-hearted.

Standing in the shade of a tree that remembers the dinosaurs, I am able to feel who I am and why I am here. I am here to write. To enjoy good music and good books. To eat often and well. To share sunsets and playlists with those who remind me how little I'd be without people to call home. To ask questions, sometimes to know the answers, other times to not. To love and to be loved. To stumble and lose my nerve but never to lose heart. To pay attention. To study in Rawls late at night, to send a text when I see something that reminds me of someone, to drive while my sister naps in the passenger seat, to adopt a cat (working on this one), to listen to Cami tell me her winding stories and enjoy the way her face lights up when she remembers a new detail, to hug my parents, to travel and live in new cities, to enjoy the patterns of sunlight through tree branches.

Now, my room at Purdue is decorated with ginkgo memorabilia from friends and family who see a drawing or wall hanging or scarf and bring it back to help me grow my collection (I am so lucky). So, too, is my body. The day I landed in O'Hare from Boston, I went straight to my tattoo artist in Irving Park because I knew as early as June that the ginkgo is now a part of me. Purdue's campus is full of them (my favorite is the one behind Lily). The words above are excerpts pulled and adjusted from my personal statement for law school applications. In John Green's The Anthropocene Reviewed, which I finished this past Winter Break, he rates various facets and inventions of human life on a five-star scale. For context, he gives Monopoly 1 1/2 stars and Super Mario Kart four stars. He gives the ginkgo five stars.

—

In my life story (not that anyone is asking or keeping score), Boston would get its own chapter. I was only there for two months, I know. In my defense, a lot can (and did) happen in two months. So you know I had to write about it in great and belated detail. A heartfelt thank you to anyone who took the time to read. x