“To become a crowd is to keep out death.” —Don DeLillo, White Noise

I have two memories from my childhood trip to Disney World. The first, and perhaps most traumatizing, was my experience on the “It’s a Small World” ride. From the outside, it looks fun and friendly, like a frosted cake. But on the inside it’s dark and hellish—a lot like Disney World itself. Visitors pile into this dinky boat, which moves at a glacial pace from one ‘country’ to the next while 300 different puppets pop out at you from all sides. Harsh lights shine up from the floor, casting eerie shadows on the puppets’ overly enthusiastic and slightly racist features. A chorus of chipmunk-sounding children playing xylophones is synced with the mechanical movements of the puppets, who look right at you and never blink—or did they?

It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears

It’s a world of hopes and a world of fears

There’s so much that we share that it’s time we’re aware

It’s a small world after all…

The song was written by The Sherman Brothers to promote ‘global peace’ after the Cuban Missile Crisis and has been said to be the most played and translated piece of music on Earth. The title loops incessantly and never changes pitch, leaving you pissed at how small the world is, rather than numbly satisfied. It’s a small world after all, so please get me out of here.

My life as of late has felt like the never-ending version of the “It’s a Small World” ride. I have just returned home to New York City after graduating from a small liberal arts college in Poughkeepsie, NY. With only 2,400 students enrolled at the school, running into people I knew on campus was never surprising. The opposite was true: not recognizing someone was grounds for suspicion. Now that I’m back in New York, I run into (or run away from) at least three people a day that I have not seen in years—many of whom I never thought I’d see again. My response to these chance encounters is always the same, like a tired wind-up toy: “What a small world!”

On my first night back in the city, I saw a boy from my distant past standing on a street corner outside of a bar. He had messaged me a few months prior on Facebook asking me “what I was up to,” and I made up some excuse as to why I was too busy to hang out. We hadn’t been friends twelve years ago, and I didn’t feel like finding out if we would be now. Those were the days when I could get away with such flippancy—when I could retreat back to my socially stable Poughkeepsie bubble. When I saw this particular person that night though, I shrieked and pushed my friend’s body in front of mine. I then proceeded to dash into oncoming traffic to avoid him, which in retrospect probably only drew more attention to myself. Would I rather die than speak to this person again? In that moment, the answer was yes.

Since then—and keep in mind I’ve only been back for one month—I’ve seen every person who’s ever employed me on the streets of New York. I’ve seen friends (and enemies) from preschool, elementary school, middle school and high school—and sometimes all at once. I saw a girl who studied abroad with me in Paris, France my junior year, who’s originally from Slovakia (and whose last name on Facebook happens to be Meow.) At a concert in Brooklyn one night, it was like I never graduated. I’ve even seen the family that sells my all-time favorite empanadas at college getting food at a nondescript deli across the street from my house. That run-in felt so much like a divine intervention that for a second I believed in a higher power. When I tried to tell others about it though, no one’s reaction was satisfying. I wanted nothing short of dumbfounded. Instead I just felt dumb.

I’ve lived in New York all my life—I know how small it can feel sometimes, despite the fact that it’s populated by almost twenty million people. But it makes sense. Certain neighborhoods attract the same crowds who flow in the same patterns and circles. We’re like salmon swimming upstream or birds flying north. In this city, it doesn’t take long to find yourself in a network where everyone is separated by six degrees or less.

Talking about running into people is like being surprised when your flight gets delayed or when you’re caught in the rain without an umbrella. It happens to everyone and no one really cares when it happens to anyone but himself or herself. Yet, it seems to be all I talk about these days, and all my friends talk about. Maybe we have nothing better to say to each other, but maybe this world really is small.

Running into people can be startling for many reasons. Right now it’s a reminder of how much time has passed and how quickly. When someone sees me for the first time in years, I automatically assume that they think I’m fatter now. Or uglier or dumber or less impressive in every way. “I didn’t even recognize you!” is the meanest thing a person can say to me because it sends me into a tailspin of wondering why and how. I follow their gaze, up and then down, shrinking with every inch of projected scrutiny. I’ve learned to always leave the house prepared. You just never know these days who you might run into when you’re wearing your brother’s size twelve Nikes and holding a bag of soiled-tampon-filled trash.

Regardless of who I bump into, it’s always so good to see them. And we should definitely do lunch! I feel like the real sign of adulthood is making lunch plans with no intention of keeping them. I don’t get lunch anymore. I do lunch.

There’s a simple explanation for why I’m all of a sudden running into so many people and why it’s so earth-shattering to us all: we’re back and we’re not going anywhere. We’re stuck with each other and our fake lunch plans for the foreseeable future. This is our new home and these are our new social circles. The New York Times called those of us who’ve moved back home ‘boomerang kids,’ but post-grad life right now it’s more like an amusement park ride: it’s not that fun and no one wins.

The second traumatizing thing that happened to me at Disney World was when I grabbed a stranger’s hand thinking it was my father’s.

—Daddy! Daddy can we—

—I’M NOT YOUR DADDY, little girl!

I looked up in horror at this bellowing stranger. His face was pink and his hand managed to be coarse and sweaty at the same time. The man continued to laugh maniacally as I scanned the crowd for my real father. His black curly hair was indistinguishable in a sea of Mickey Mouse hats. Finally, I located my mother and grabbed onto her pale thigh, which I was confident was attached to her body. She scolded me for running off on by myself, yet I smiled nonetheless. I was just happy to see a familiar face in the crowd.