Stumbling Into The Middle Class
As the ink dried on the lease, I settled back into my new broker-neighbor’s West Elm couch, relieved that the long search was over.
Of the 40+ apartments viewed all over Manhattan, Astoria, and Sunnyside, nothing could touch this one: 850 square feet of arches, dining halls, and sprawling rooms with western exposures and a nighttime view of the the Manhattan skyline. Rent stabilized in a privately owned building nestled on a tree-lined street next to Sunnyside Gardens.
As the broker talked about the people in the building and how they’d come to live there, her pet cockatoo snuggled under my chin, murmuring sweet nothings. I glanced around the room, absorbing my surroundings .
I suddenly realized that my new home was a gated community. It was all vaguely Stepford, but not unpleasantly so. I felt as thought I’d conned my way into a world that was forbidden and unattainable.
My mother was an engineer, my father was a college drop-out. My maternal grandfather died in a hospital and was buried under a flag to honor his service in WWII. My paternal grandfather died in a car accident, drunk out of his mind.
My class, as impressed upon me by both sides of my family, was forever in contention.
Would I “get pregnant before (I) was 13,” (father’s words)? Or would I go on to be a doctor or engineer like my mother’s side of the family?
A few short years ago, I was a struggling “anything but sex” worker barely surviving on Medicaid. Now I had a graduate degree and a vaguely enviable career — especially for a writer.
The broker knew every person we encountered in the halls and announced them along with their profession. She had a whiff of lighthearted arrogance, casually mentioning how this or that person was leaving to move into “a tiny 3 bedroom.”
She knew exactly who I worked for and what our organization did throughout the city’s business improvement districts. This was a job interview and it was clear that I had nailed it.
Oh God, had I become one of THOSE people?
Is this “adulting?”
Do I like these people or should I just pretend to?
I turned toward the broker — a stunning 48-year-old (at least in New York years) with a shock of electric blue dyed into her naturally gray hair. She was draped in an elegant black outfit and a pearl necklace, looking for all the world like some animal-loving Cruella De Ville. She talked a lot about her insomnia and boasted that her bird, Snuggles, liked to bite men.
As I walked out of the building, she insisted on a hug, melting into my Kenneth Cole jacket like a beloved old friend.
“Shit,” I realized. “Maybe I am.”
