I promised last time I would share more of my unshared work this week…so here she is! This is something I wrote two years ago after we got back from New York City. This piece never quite felt complete so I didn’t know what to do with it. Still, there’s something about it I really like.
It’s almost a week after we got back from our trip, and I’m just now unpacking. Sometimes, I do things like this intentionally: I wait to unpack from a trip; I skip a night or two of flossing; I leave clothes on the floor. It’s all deliberate. My own attempt to critique or protest the unwritten rules, the order we have all bought into.
This time, I am unpacking one or two items at a time over a series of days; my suitcase splayed open on the floor, its guts exploding out. I reach in to grab an item but see brown wrapping paper buried behind it. My mug! I had forgotten about it. I rescue it from the sea of my clothing, pulling back the paper to reveal the iconic I LOVE NY emblazoned on the front. I love this mug, most mugs, really, although I prefer the random, mismatched ones from restaurants or places I have visited to the perfectly matching ones sold in sets. There’s nothing wrong with those matching ones, especially the beautiful ceramic ones, but their conformity feels off-putting. Too serious or professional, I think. I like the misfits.
There’s the one I got my husband on his first Father’s Day from our daughter: “You’re the world’s greatest dad, although my frame of reference is limited.” There’s the one from Key West, which is now only a plain cream mug because the decal was rinsed away in countless dishwashing cycles. I got the bright yellow mug from a restaurant we ate at after my father-in-law died. The food was a pleasant surprise, and their loud yellow mugs made me happy in a time of deep sadness. My husband, Brandon, wanted to throw it out after a coffee stain moved into a small crack on the side, but I wouldn’t let him. Today, it sits patiently on the shelf in our pantry next to the cheeky “Brandon” mug Ben brought him. Ben and Brandon traveled through South America together, a trip that began after Ben spent three months canoeing down the Mississippi. I remember not knowing which was funnier, that Ben was in Orlando or that he bought this hideous mug. It’s still one of our favorites, and I bought a companion Lori mug in Galveston that is equally ugly.
Now I have a new mug to add to the shelf. It was a last-minute purchase the night before we left, in a random souvenir shop we passed by on our way back to the hotel. My kids wanted their own Statue of Liberty, so here we were, buying miniature symbols of freedom for their own possession. How American, I thought.
While they debated whether to get the Lady Liberty draped in the American flag, a plain silver one, or the more modern faux gold statue, I spotted the mugs. I LOVE NY, a classic. I picked it up and headed back to the Statues of Liberty. There were so many. I wondered who bought them. The sign above said $4.99 each or 3 for $11.99. Not a bad price for Liberty Enlightening the World - her official name. Seeing this deal, the kids, of course, wanted three. (That’s who buys these.)
Why do you need three statues of liberty? I ask.
So we each have one, and then we can share the third, my daughter says. It can go in our bathroom, and it’s only $2 more. American consumerism at its finest.
I only have $20, I say, trying to total the lady liberties and my I LOVE NY mug. It’ll be close, I think. As if inside my brain, the man working the store waves his hand and says it’s okay. I can’t place his accent and wonder where he is from. We take our souvenirs to the front. He had been watching us the whole time and took a moment to see which statues my kids landed on.
We got one of each, my son said with a smile. The man didn’t smile back, but he seemed kind. As he rang us up - $20.68, letting the .68 slide - I asked him how long he has lived in NY. He paused momentarily and then said six years as if he couldn’t believe it himself. I’m not sure why, but this surprised me. I would have guessed 20 years. He pulled out some brown paper and began wrapping my mug. Looking at the I LOVE NY on my mug, I asked him if he likes living here. Before the question leaves my mouth, I regret asking it.
Do I like it, he repeats, emphasizing the word like. He didn’t understand what I was asking, not because English isn’t his first language but because the idea of him liking NYC was never on the table. He took a long pause before answering me. It's a hard life. Very lonely. My wife is not here. My kids are not here. Pause. It’s very hard.
That must be so difficult, I say. I’m really sorry. I want to ask him where he is from and why he came here, but I know it’s not my place. I want to ask him about his family. I want to send my family back to the hotel so I can sit down to hear his stories. But they are none of my business, and I don’t think he is interested in sharing them, at least not with me, a woman buying an I LOVE NY mug the night before she returns to her life, her home. His eyes look sad, and I feel stupid for asking him my question.
The people I know who moved to New York City did so with excitement. It was an adventure, an experience, a chance to “make it.” The middle-class version of the American dream. The people I knew came here hoping and expecting they would like it. And if they didn’t, they could return to where they came from or try someplace new. If they left their family behind, it was by choice. Studying this man’s face, I know he is here for a different kind of American dream, which isn’t much of a dream at all. I thank him for the souvenirs, and we leave.
Now, I am standing in my kitchen with my freshly unwrapped mug in one hand and the brown paper in the other. I throw the paper away and place the mug next to the sink for washing. I look at the I LOVE NY plastered on the front, and I think of the man in the shop. Do you like it here? I pick up the mug and study it, the iconic logo staring back at me. I think of the man who designed it. Milton Glaser, a design legend, created the logo in the back of a taxi in the 1970s. He was a first-generation New Yorker born to immigrant parents. An American dream. He didn’t just like it here; he loved it, so much that he designed the logo for New York State for free. The goal was to increase tourism, and that logo still earns the state $30 million a year.
And here I am, a freshly returned tourist, with my I LOVE NY mug in hand—such a cliche. I look at the logo once more before turning the mug over in my hand. There’s a sticker on the bottom that catches my attention. “A product of the economic development of New York. Made in China.” I huff out a small laugh. How American, I think. I put the mug back on the counter. I look at it and think of the people in China who made that mug. I think of the man who sold it to me. Then I headed back to my room and unpacked my suitcase until there was nothing left to unpack.