the goldfish you named Mel

I wish they understood
that the goldfish you named Mel
couldn’t make you feel better.
I imagine they would know
that you needed more validation
less conversations with Mel
about the stories from
your collection of VHS cassettes–
Mel never said anything back,
but I could swear she saw all of them.
You couldn’t understand
God’s words of wisdom
and their symbolism
feed from a pedestal,
but you could understand
a smile and a hug
from a healing friend
even more so at the age of 5
than you do now–
I could swear it has the same effect.
But instead they brought home
the goldfish you named Mel
inside a plastic bag
your young grip is proud
as you bring it to eye level:
little fish, from now on
you’ll be judge by your ability
to climb a tree
wrapped in invalidation
your fins
my feelings.

Please swipe again

“Are three years in New York City enough to consider yourself a New Yorker?”, I type on the Google search bar as my currently most-used method of seeking validation while saving myself from the embarrassment and guilt that comes from admitting that I’m actually very much of in need of validation or some sort of emotional comfort…in need of my yogurt lid medal (alert: The Office reference), call it what you will. I quickly erase what I typed as I look around my shoulders: I am sitting on the subway car: legs crossed, manspreading witness, and as I look up just in time to miss the glances of at least 7 other strangers from diverse nationalities, staring at my phone screen, which, the second I meet their eyes, quickly look away. Acting completely indifferent and self-absorbed, had I not lived here for the past 1,095 days, had I not taken the subway 1,090 times, had I been less socially anxious, I would have thought that nobody in this subway car is aware of my existence or cares enough to sneak glances at my phone screen…but I know better now, because I am one of them…

     “There, there’s your answer,” I say to myself, “you are one of them.” My mind-wandering is interrupted,”we’re being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher, because of a sick passenger..we’ll be moving shortly.” Had it been my first year in NYC, I would have waited patiently, began to wonder if the said passenger is okay, and prayed the emergency service gets here soon…but I’m a New Yorker now…I know my way around…I know how to navigate, time is money, and I cannot wait. So I get off my stationary D train, walk a couple of blocks, and get on the R train on Prince Street. At the turnstile I bring out my MetroCard, having mastered the art of swiping it…how you hold it horizontally, with the name facing towards you, how you swipe it not too quick, but not too slow…just right…and you get it right the first time…the people behind you can see that you know your way around, nobody’s late because of you, it’s New York City’s way of welcoming you…yes, you passed the test, yes, you’re one of them, yes, this city accepts you, they accept you, they love you…I go ahead confidently, my whole body ready to swipe my beloved card of fulfilled need for validation, my beloved card of confirmation for the struggle of fitting in which has been real, but worth it…”Please swipe again”, says the turnstile screen…