The Great Lawn
Farewell, for now, New York.
When the infections went exponential in March I fled from Manhattan to my parents’ home on Long Island like I was catching the first chopper out of Saigon. Small apartments make sense when you’re not confined to them. So, after two years, I’ve decided not to renew the lease on my apartment in the Upper East Side. I recognize how lucky I am. Not only for the suburban refuge over the last five months, but for a steady job I can do remotely, and for a family who’s willing to have me. My suffering has been relatively minimal which makes it hard to sulk. But I loved my life in New York City, and I’m sad to leave it.
I’m here now for the last time, packing up my things and preparing to move back to the home I grew up in, uncertain of what the next year will bring. As I try to process the unwanted changes, I can’t help but think about something extraordinary I witnessed in Central Park this summer on a beautiful day in July.
It happened on the Great Lawn, the fifty-five-acre clearing located smack in the middle of the park like a giant putting green. It may not be the geographical center of the city, but it feels right to say it is. Like the eye of a hurricane, it’s a calm place amid the urban chaos, a sanctuary for concrete dwellers of all creeds and colors. Take a walk through the Great Lawn on any half-decent day and you’ll find a few hundred New Yorkers laid out like they’re at Jones beach: sheets and towels, coolers and picnic baskets, dates and games and Bluetooth speakers — all with a south-facing view of the midtown skyline. It’s hard not to love. The scene on this day, apart from the masks and respectful levels of social distance, was no different.
I was enjoying the sunny afternoon, and trying to do a little reading when I heard a scream. I turned to see what happened and saw a man and woman — a white couple who looked to be in their mid-30s — running frantically in opposite directions. They were both yelling but I couldn’t tell why. The man stopped at the edge of the lawn and put his hands on the back of his head in disoriented surrender. I could tell he was scared. A larger audience was now tuning in as I tried not to stare. Something terrible had happened, and, by proximity, we were invested in the outcome. It dawned on me, then, that something had been lost. At first, I guessed it was a dog off-leash and my heart sank. I imagined how unlikely it would be to track down a lost pet amid the herd of people and exit paths. This was a bad spot to lose a dog.
On different sides of the lawn, the man and woman called out for whoever was missing. After a few minutes of futile attempts, they hurried back to their beach chair set-up, which they were sharing with another couple — friends I assumed. The man was now yelling with accusation as if placing blame would alleviate his burden. The argument was hard to hear from where I was sitting, but the louder inflections were clear:
“Weren’t you watching him? Where the fuck did he go?! We need to call the police!”
It hit me, then, that terrified parents don’t concern themselves with vanity. This type of outburst could not have been over a dog. Their child was missing.
Everyone on the lawn was watching now, and as the yelling intensified so did my heart rate.
In a jolt of clarity, I thought about how frustrating the last five months have been. All the deaths, the isolation and derailed plans; the racial tensions and ridiculous politics; the bottled-up anxieties over new normals without endings in sight. Trying to hold it together. The bright energy of a calm afternoon had gone dark in a matter of seconds, yet there was something strangely cathartic in the communal outpouring of fear. As if everyone on the Great Lawn could identify with the maddening lack of control that was finally erupting in a couple's plight to find their lost son
The next five minutes felt like an hour. Most people stood helplessly, scanning their surroundings for a misplaced kid who was hopefully within sight. A palpable sense of empathy spread across the lawn as we tried not to think the worst.
Suddenly, commotion stirred from the south entrance. A tall black man with long dreadlocks walked toward the couple. He was holding the hand of a little boy who had wandered too far. The collective sigh of relief was audible; and in a moment I’ll never forget, what must have been three-hundred New Yorkers, myself included, began to cheer. The Rastafarian savior, whoever he was, strode through the middle of the Great Lawn that day like he was Moses crossing the Red Sea.
The parents thanked the stranger and hugged their child tightly before a wave of anger washed back the relief. The father, still fuming, yelled at the other couple, chastising them, again, for being careless. This added a sour note to the happy ending, but I couldn’t blame him for the primal reaction. Life’s not a Pixar movie.
In a fifteen-minute eternity, I watched the best and worst qualities of humanity play out like a screenplay. I thought about the spirit of New York City and what can’t be taken from it. How the twenty-two-mile island of Manhattan reflects a mosaic of cultures, crammed together, ultimately looking out for one another. Proof that the experiment works. And it’s what I’ll miss the most.
Of course, I’ll miss the spontaneity too. The rush of potential that comes with residential membership. The constant sense of adventure. When boroughs felt like nations and exploring them made crossing the East River as exciting as flying over the Atlantic. I’ll miss eating Peking duck in Chinatown, trying to catch a midnight show at The Comedy Cellar because there was a rumor Chappelle was in town, then heading to Fat Cat, the basement club on Christopher Street that specialized in shuffleboard, ping-pong, and live jazz. The best spots always served a higher purpose to connect us, after all.
Change, as hard as it is to accept, is precoded in nature. Wired into our DNA is an undercurrent of resilience — to adapt and grow, no matter how frayed we become. A pandemic doesn’t change that.
My brother shared a passage from East of Eden with me recently. There’s a character in Steinbeck’s classic named Lee, a Chinese immigrant who serves as a butler to a family in California. Lee’s also a philosopher. Throughout the novel, he ponders the meaning of being alive and the miracle of human potential. In a moment of reflection, towards the novel’s end, Lee takes out a book. It’s a worn copy of The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, written by the stoic Emperor of Rome eighteen hundred years ago. Seeking familiar comfort, the immigrant reads an earmarked page to himself:
Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered. Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.
Farewell, for now, New York. If there’s a better place to live, I’m not ready to find it. I like to think I’ll be back, but as we know, the universe is privy to its own plans. For now, I’ll raise a glass to the impossibility of it all; a toast to our uncertain future.
To the good and bad. The hope and fear. The love and hate. The lost and found.
Breathe deeply in the balance and exhale.