Beneath the Dirt

The first time I visited New York City as an adult I left remembering that it was dirty. 

I was staying with a friend in Washington Heights and the streets were lined with black garbage bags. The trash never managed to stay in the garbage bags and would spill onto the streets, collecting in corners.

Amidst the trash were pigeons. Pigeons look almost magical from a distance, but they are repulsive up close, missing toes and legs, attacking each other over bits of discarded trash and making constant guttural noises.

Once I navigated past the trash and pigeons I entered the subway where I was met with another form of dirty; dirty smells, dirty water, dirty rats; dirty beggars. 

To an outsider, the homeless population with their unrestrained panhandling, smells and constant presence can be alarming.

It didn’t feel like home, because home was clean. So I left and wondered why people liked such a dirty city. 

//

Dirty. It’s an unavoidably offensive word. No one wants to be associated with dirty.

That woman is dirty. That man’s money is dirty. Their kids have a dirty mouth. Her car is always dirty. Have you seen the way she lets her baby play on the floor at the mall, its dirty?

When did we become a culture obsessed with outward cleanliness, but fine with inward filth?

 //

The next time I visited New York I was in a different frame of mind. Instead of dirt when I walked around the city, I saw independence, culture, differentness, acceptance and life. 

I noticed the man in the business suit handing the homeless man money, the cherry blossoms were blooming, the cute cafes had tables spilling onto the sidewalks where friends had brunch.

Beneath the dirt, I discovered the first place in my adult life that felt like an authentic home.