XCVIII.Depersonalized Disposition -

Depersonalization disposition - an existence that is organic and daily, and that is somewhat reminiscent of archaic simplicity; a state of being which cannot instagrammed, or tweeted about, but instead is just lived and experienced by the individual.

I know I want to live in the throes of New York City, the borough of Manhattan or, alternatively, live in a Himalayan-bound setting where the air is always fresh, the greenery always lush, and the intellectual market untouched enough to be a pioneer.

Until I am able to do the above, post-education and post-income, I am here, at home.

I love home.Still, I feel like I’ve grown out of the area. I don’t know anyone around here really, which is somewhat of a blessing. I can walk around the neighborhood unscathed. I’m not questioned or stared at and I can walk around without gauging possible detours that need to be made in order to avoid someone.

I’ve spoken in previous posts about wanting to move, with my family, from our current home, as planned, as soon as possible. We can decide on brick patterns later!

However, I have to admit, that after a long day of work and the bus, 2 trains, and walking running that made up my transportation routine during this past autumn, I enjoyed escaping from the work world to the homely coziness that is my neighborhood.

This enjoyment usually comes in passing and I tend to forget that it ever existed.

Right now, a part of me wants to reconnect with my fellow ambitious college friends who are inhabiting my city. Yes, my city. Maybe when they’re outside of campus, socializing and enjoying life does not have to revolve around drunken revelry. Or, maybe my fellow motivated peers’ lifestyles are just that way.
Regardless, I am here, at home, in a world that is separate from the corporate and away from the tourists that clog up Bloomies.

I’m here and there.

I can escape from either place when I want to. I think it is a nice balance.

Yes, I do not appreciate the locales in my neighborhood who aspire as far as the beaches in Long Island and the outlets in the Hudson Valley.

However, I think there are populations like this in every neighborhood. After all, neighborhoods exist as a settlement of sorts. People want to settle and live a happy, somewhat routine life.

I think my educational aspirations have merged with a wanderlust that developed during my days at the Ivy. If those people could take off on a whim to any continent they so choose, there is no reason why I cannot. Even if they came from money, somewhere down the line, someone had to catalyze this way of life. Someone had to make this life of travel and ultra-luxury, materialize.

I’m going to make sure that in my lifetime, and sooner rather than later, that I will be that catalyst.

I could have taken on jobs and collected troves of income to travel here or there. I could have, but I know what I want.

I don’t want a string of tasks or jobs.

I want meaningful experiences that will give me a plethora of relevant skills. What I want is a professional career. I want to pave my own way and truly utilize my intellect.

So yes, I am that coming-of-age person who is acting on integrity.

If anyone tells me that he/she lied and made up some sort of improvised explanation to get a position somewhere, it is because you haven’t done what is necessary to attain what you want. You are not ready.

Experiences take time. Gaining skills and honing them; it all takes time.

The next time someone asks me what I am doing, I won’t try to find a generic answer that will fit their explanation for what they themselves are doing, a job. I’m working on multiple projects, attaining experiences, and increasingly trying to become a rarity.

With that said, I like this disposition of being a rarity. I like being that person who walks in step with the intellectual, driven, NY Fashion week crowd on her coffee-run in downtown Manhattan, takes public transportation all the way to the outskirts of NYC, and then comes home to a fashion-invested closet and ghar ka khana, home food, which is a microcosmic way of saying, home or family life.

I love that I can walk down one avenue and see Hindu deities in storefront windows and Punjabi written on the sidewalk.


I love that I can walk down another avenue and enter a Hispanic-managed supermarket that when I enter, causes me to conjure up memories of my grandmother’s house; I can smell the adobo seasoned chicken she would have cooking in the kitchen. I love that this supermarket has platanos, plantains, because Stop & Shop caters to the bland mash potatoes/sliced-and-glazed carrots crowd and do not carry plantains.

Sometimes I forget this appreciation for where I live. When I do remember, it is in passing, like that day I came home early from work, ran some errands, and took the 10 minute bus ride home.

“Thank you,” I told the bus driver as I was leaving.

Namaste, he replied. I don’t think I have ever vocalized “Namaste.” As a Punjabi Sikh I only ever say, “Sat Sri Akal”. I was smiling though. There was no getting past the fact that every passenger on the bus so far was of South Asian descent.

For now, here is my depersonalized disposition, that is not any less motivated or determined than the occupant of high cost, box-like living.