Apollo Fields | Dear Blank | Terrence Huie | Dear New York City | Writer

“Dear New York City,

You beautiful, dirty, collection of concrete and steel. With your neon signs and ramen shops, speakeasies and curated intellectualism. How is that you can make both a hot dog and a slice of pizza feel sexy? You are like the girlfriend I always wanted but never wanted to lock down (no pun-intended).

You turned some of the best years of my life into a blur; like one of the 1, 2, 3, 7, A, E, N, Q, W, C, R, or S, trains crashed through the pavement in Times Square and started careening down Broadway. No local stops. Elmo get the fuck out of the way! Stop walking on the left side of the sidewalk and let the real New Yorkers through.

You gave me a grid of avenues and alleyways to find myself and I did. I ran past high rises and castles, through your bars and women, and found a Meadow all of my own. you couldn’t hide the sun in there.

You gave me an education and a voice. A vocation and a partner. My time with you felt like a crosstown cab with no ticker. That actually happened once. “You’re on my way home,” you said. I still don’t think I tipped you enough.

People are saying that you’ve gone to shit but I think you are as beautiful as ever. You’ve never been the belle of the ball—you are the fucking ball, baby. You are every face behind the bodega counter, every pair of tired eyes over the steering wheel, every late night bar joke, and busker in the subway. Those people just don’t know beauty anymore.

Ugly people don’t own mirrors because they can’t bear what they see. And what are you—if not what you see? When I look at you I don’t see the hordes of people running to the ‘burbs; I see the avenues and blocks, the lights and neon signs, the paths that led me to where I am today.

Love,

Terrence”