Woooof. Apologies to all those who have been asking where these newsletters have been the past two months. Not sure if you feel the same, but the world’s felt heavy recently. People are struggling and the news cycles are inundated with sadness. I wanted to be mindful of the fact that harsh realities have been finding ways to infiltrate even the most undeserving. It’s times like these when perspective is checked into the forefront of my every thought, forcing me to minimize and shut down things some would consider frivolous. This mindset has recently paralyzed me from being able to enjoy any sense of creativity or levity. However, I’m realizing that creation and art are more important than ever right now. I imagine it’s one of the few resources we have in releasing unwanted anchors of sadness. So alas - let’s continue this journey together in the name of frivolity :)
“You can’t force magic to strike” says my 64-year old co-worker Bruce as he lowers his bifocals down the bridge of his nose. I’m 22, fresh out of college, and have been thrown into what feels like the trenches of the world, a windowless skyscraper on 28th and Park. It’s still summer in Manhattan and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing besides the fact that I have a tendency to wear my heels an inch too tall and my collars an inch too tight. I’m dressing for the part I thought I wanted my whole life, but the blisters on the back of my heels are telling me otherwise.
Professional, clean, formal, but most importantly, likeable. At least those are the expectations my new manager set for myself and the two other grads I started my career with. “Suits for the boys, heels and dresses for the girl” he says, gesturing his hand toward myself and my other two colleagues. His use of his word “girl” still irritates me to this day.
You see, it was just a small price to pay – a lie I first started telling myself when embarking down a career path that afforded me to live in Manhattan on my own. Had it gone the way I originally intended, I probably would’ve been writing columns like Carrie or working for fashion magazines like Andy - at least that’s the version of new york every young girl was sold in the early 2000s. I’d probably take up residence in a lofty Tribeca apartment and rent would never be an issue because it never was for the girls in the movies.
Bruce is my first ever client at my job in the real world.
Skeptical, aloof, dismissive. All appropriate reactions from a man 40 years my senior when learning he’d be forced to undertake the new grad. I knew nothing about anything and it was more obvious than the word “naive” I seemed to have written across my forehead. I was tasked to help alleviate, optimize (buzzword!), and create efficiencies for the role Bruce held at the company for the last two decades. I was already in over my head before I was even given the chance to learn how to swim.
At first, Bruce felt highly unapproachable. Someone who preferred to be unbothered and left alone. The stress he endured upholding his career had not so subtly worn on him. Defeated, yes, defeated is the word I would use. As far as I could see, his career was a strike mission–Get in, get out, get paid.
I was never able to picture myself being one of Bruce’s protégés. Bruce held a large stature with a slicked back, grey ponytail that he sometimes tied into a small knot beneath the nape of his neck. His propensity to remain mysterious certainly felt intentional. The only evidence of a life lived outside of the office were the two pictures placed neatly on his desk - one with his partner John and the other with his two dogs, posing in the backyards of suburbia.
I could tell that finding any sort of common ground with Bruce was going to be challenging, so I attempted to connect with him the only way I knew how– on a basic human level. I invited him to coffee at a local shop around the corner, a stone’s throw away from our office. I’m nervous that I appear visibly uncomfortable and pray that bystanders can’t sense my unease.
We take seats by the windows so I can stare out onto Park Ave for the inevitable lulls in conversation. I cross and uncross my legs several times before I settle on a position that feels poised and mature, anything to help combat my girl label.
I decided to start small, of course, with question after question. He takes his coffee black, rides the 6:43am train from Manhasset to Manhattan. Loves jazz and frequents the MoMA. Harvests his own tomatoes in his back yard on Long Island every summer. The two dogs I noted earlier were named after famous singers, Bowie and Ringo. Spent most of his life living in Brooklyn until he said the new millennium ruined the culture of the borough. That and 9/11.
“That shit changes you” he says, recounting his experience with a softened sadness behind his eyes. His demeanor starts to ease. His eyes glaze over his cup of coffee as he nervously swirls the remains. He lowers his glasses, once again, but this time to speak directly into what appears to be my soul. A wave of empathy washes over me even though I’m struggling to find the right words to respond with. I decided to nod in agreement instead.
“I lost family, friends, and faith. You were probably too young to understand, but the impact of that day left scars on this city forever. We were paralyzed by fear. Inundated with horror. I never thought I would be able to work again. It took me a long time to regain trust and faith in the world, let alone the city.”
“I remember,” I say. “It was fucked.”
The once bustling coffee shop appears to be swept with a violent stillness. It’s hard to believe that a city so powerful, with energy so tangible, was able to fall victim to such tragedy. Besieged and destroyed. Flashbacks of witnessing the ghastly reality on TV are now at the forefront of my memories again. I’m motionless with shock, mostly because I’m sitting across from someone whose life is still affected by this every waking moment.
Bruce and I walk back to the office, mostly in silence. I can feel the skin on the back of my heel start to tear again from the humidity of the summer. I look up at our building on 28th and Park and feel a sense of uneasiness as we ascend up the stairs together and back to the elevator.
Still speechless, I hit floor 7.
“You know,” he says, finally breaking the silence, “Don’t wait for something as tragic as that to force you to start living your life. Your career, where you live, who you surround yourself with–none of it’s guaranteed. Not even these next few moments. Whatever it is, don’t wait.”
Disheartened, I ask “if this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing, how and when will I figure it out?”
I reach down towards my heel to loosen the grip of my shoe, now fully bleeding at this point.
“You can’t force magic to strike, but don’t waste your time somewhere you know you’re not meant to be.”
That’s all for now :)
Much love,
Shan
As promised!
Playlists from the past few weeks:
What’s been taking up my brain space:
I recently watched this documentary called A Plastic Ocean which came out in 2016 and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. My biggest takeaways and how I’m actively trying to do better moving forward !
8 million pieces of plastic pollution make their way into the ocean daily. That's equivalent to dumping roughly two garbage trucks full of plastic into the oceans every minute.
Accumulated Plastic: It's estimated that there are already between 75 to 199 million tons of plastic waste currently in our oceans.
Microplastics: In addition to larger debris, there are trillions of smaller microplastic particles in the ocean. One study estimated around 5.25 trillion macro and microplastics floating in the open ocean, weighing up to 269,000 tonnes. Another estimated 14 million metric tons of microplastic particles resting on the ocean floor by 2020.
Where does this plastic come from?
Land-based sources: A significant portion, estimated to be around 9.5 million tonnes, enters the ocean from land via mismanaged waste, rivers, and coastlines. Over 1,000 rivers are responsible for 80% of riverine plastic emissions into the ocean.
Ocean-based sources: Approximately 1.75 million tonnes are estimated to be discarded directly into the sea from the fishing and shipping industries. Lost or abandoned fishing gear, also known as "ghost gear," accounts for a considerable portion of this.
How you can help:
STOP using single-use plastic! Bring your own coffee cup and reusable water bottle everywhere.
Limit online ordering from stores or brands that primarily use plastic to package their products (Amazon! Ugh!).
Grocery stores! Bring your own bags and limit buying pre-packaged fruits and vegetables that are wrapped or packaged in plastic (think berries, bags of lettuce, etc.)
Support water bottle companies using cardboard instead of single use plastic!
Donate to organizations looking to fight the plastic crises through recycling research and legislation (locally and federally.)
Support worldwide ocean advocacy programs!
And finally, ending on a lighter note to cleanse your palette:
Well worth the wait. So good, Shannon. I hope Bruce is happy, wherever he is. And I always love a positive Cape Cod mention. Thanks for brightening my morning.
Really well written and powerful story, feeling all of that on a too relatable level so thank you much for sharing :)