City Lights
are Liars
I used to live for irony. A good, clever joke was always welcome in my ear, but that changed after moving to New York City. Irony used to be able to slap a big ol’ smile on my face, but the irony of the dead sucking us dry failed to make me smile. The irony of a paying job keeping us broke didn’t give me any sort of amusement. But the irony of a the city of freedom enslaving my mother killed me inside.
We originally lived just outside of Detroit. We lived with my grandmother in a small town; my mother worked in a factory in Detroit and would commute back and forth. It wasn’t too bad, only an hour there and an hour back. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a paycheck. It’s better to be slightly bothered than going hungry, which is why my mother and I had to move to New York City when my grandmother died. She couldn’t afford to pay for really any aspect of the house after paying off all of my grandmother’s medical bills and funeral costs.
The struggle to keep us in the house turned numerous strands of my mom’s golden hair to silver. The stress started to make her pale, and the lack of groceries started to make us both an unhealthy thin. Apparently Detroit was too shitty to find jobs, which really wasn’t surprising, but the move to New York City was. I mean, aren’t there nicer areas that have job opportunities? Not that I think New York City is a giant shit hole. Quite the contrary. I think living in a might-as-well-be project is a giant shit hole. And for what? So my mother can work three minimum wage jobs and never see me? I’d rather be completely possession-less and homeless in our small town than miserable, lonely, and basically possession-less in a place that’s barely a step up from the projects.
I don’t really know how my mom feels about it except for completely exhausted, – is it ironic that it was her who told me “the city lights’ll look like oceans of beautiful fire” – and I tried to get a job so I could help her out, but I’m not eighteen yet, so no one will hire me. So I focus on school and make dinner so my mom can have less to do the few times she comes home before ten o’clock at night.
But nights like these, where I find myself on the roof of the building, staring at the city and all the lights, where I feel like we lost more than just our happy way of life. I feel like I’ve lost more than just my mind. I feel like an empty shell, only around to give my mom some motivation to stay alive during these hard times.
But even then, I sometimes feel like she’s already dead.
Everyday this city has taken more and more of her dreams.
Her hopes.
Her savings.
Her love.
And now it’s gnawing on her soul. The one thing that she can still call hers, and this city is taking it all away. It’s like the brighter the lights shine, the weaker my mother becomes. The skyscrapers are lined with lights; the street is riddled with blinking directions. But the lights in our apartment flicker and burn out constantly. No light, no life.
I can see my mom’s work from here, though. I can sometimes see her when she walks to the front of the place to greet and seat people. It’s not really her, though. My mother had golden hair. My mother had bright and healthy green eyes. She had a warm smile. She had fair skin. She had arms that used to wrap me up like a Christmas present, but now they can barely hold her purse. I used to look like my mother, like a carbon copy, but now I just look like a deflated balloon.
I don’t know how she has perceived me in the last few years, but I’ve watched her slowly fade while the city lights gradually got brighter. At first, it felt like they were mocking her. Now, though, it feels like they’re stealing from her. She was as bright as a brand new lamppost when we first got here; she was stressed, but she was still herself. Now…now she’s like a rusty old antenna. Incapable of getting better, and incapable of hearing any wave of hope.
I stared down at the sidewalk. Lights lined it.
The same lights that gave my mother hope.
These lights are liars. Thieves. Evil.
I couldn’t take it any more, so I walked down all thirty flights to the first floor of our building. The stairs creaked and there was an occasional roof leakage of some sort. I tried to ignore it even if something dripped on me; I wiped it off and continued my journey until I reached the street. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as I figured it would be, especially at this late hour. There were a few sketchy characters chillin’, but it was filled with people just minding their own business and trying to get back to their apartments. People who wouldn’t care about the actions of others as long as it didn’t affect them, so I took the opportunity to climb up numerous poles, broke the protective glass, and burned my hand by unscrewing thirty or so bulbs. I broke them all. I somehow found the strength and balance to stably hold myself on the lamppost while violently tossing the hot bulbs down. I watched the bulbs burst the second they made contact with the cold cement of the sidewalk. I watched the lights explode into the night sky and fade into the darkness. I watched the light disappear. I was suddenly discouraged after the thirtieth bulb and sulked back to the front steps of our building.
I sat down on the front steps of our building and waited three hours to watch my mother come home with a smile on her face for the first time since we’ve moved here. Apparently she got promoted today; she’ll make enough to only have to work two jobs. Not exactly a miracle, but it’s definitely helpful. She’ll be able to spend a little bit of more time with me. She’ll make more money; we’ll eat more than corndogs for all three meals, and I’ll be breaking more bulbs tomorrow night.
We originally lived just outside of Detroit. We lived with my grandmother in a small town; my mother worked in a factory in Detroit and would commute back and forth. It wasn’t too bad, only an hour there and an hour back. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a paycheck. It’s better to be slightly bothered than going hungry, which is why my mother and I had to move to New York City when my grandmother died. She couldn’t afford to pay for really any aspect of the house after paying off all of my grandmother’s medical bills and funeral costs.
The struggle to keep us in the house turned numerous strands of my mom’s golden hair to silver. The stress started to make her pale, and the lack of groceries started to make us both an unhealthy thin. Apparently Detroit was too shitty to find jobs, which really wasn’t surprising, but the move to New York City was. I mean, aren’t there nicer areas that have job opportunities? Not that I think New York City is a giant shit hole. Quite the contrary. I think living in a might-as-well-be project is a giant shit hole. And for what? So my mother can work three minimum wage jobs and never see me? I’d rather be completely possession-less and homeless in our small town than miserable, lonely, and basically possession-less in a place that’s barely a step up from the projects.
I don’t really know how my mom feels about it except for completely exhausted, – is it ironic that it was her who told me “the city lights’ll look like oceans of beautiful fire” – and I tried to get a job so I could help her out, but I’m not eighteen yet, so no one will hire me. So I focus on school and make dinner so my mom can have less to do the few times she comes home before ten o’clock at night.
But nights like these, where I find myself on the roof of the building, staring at the city and all the lights, where I feel like we lost more than just our happy way of life. I feel like I’ve lost more than just my mind. I feel like an empty shell, only around to give my mom some motivation to stay alive during these hard times.
But even then, I sometimes feel like she’s already dead.
Everyday this city has taken more and more of her dreams.
Her hopes.
Her savings.
Her love.
And now it’s gnawing on her soul. The one thing that she can still call hers, and this city is taking it all away. It’s like the brighter the lights shine, the weaker my mother becomes. The skyscrapers are lined with lights; the street is riddled with blinking directions. But the lights in our apartment flicker and burn out constantly. No light, no life.
I can see my mom’s work from here, though. I can sometimes see her when she walks to the front of the place to greet and seat people. It’s not really her, though. My mother had golden hair. My mother had bright and healthy green eyes. She had a warm smile. She had fair skin. She had arms that used to wrap me up like a Christmas present, but now they can barely hold her purse. I used to look like my mother, like a carbon copy, but now I just look like a deflated balloon.
I don’t know how she has perceived me in the last few years, but I’ve watched her slowly fade while the city lights gradually got brighter. At first, it felt like they were mocking her. Now, though, it feels like they’re stealing from her. She was as bright as a brand new lamppost when we first got here; she was stressed, but she was still herself. Now…now she’s like a rusty old antenna. Incapable of getting better, and incapable of hearing any wave of hope.
I stared down at the sidewalk. Lights lined it.
The same lights that gave my mother hope.
These lights are liars. Thieves. Evil.
I couldn’t take it any more, so I walked down all thirty flights to the first floor of our building. The stairs creaked and there was an occasional roof leakage of some sort. I tried to ignore it even if something dripped on me; I wiped it off and continued my journey until I reached the street. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as I figured it would be, especially at this late hour. There were a few sketchy characters chillin’, but it was filled with people just minding their own business and trying to get back to their apartments. People who wouldn’t care about the actions of others as long as it didn’t affect them, so I took the opportunity to climb up numerous poles, broke the protective glass, and burned my hand by unscrewing thirty or so bulbs. I broke them all. I somehow found the strength and balance to stably hold myself on the lamppost while violently tossing the hot bulbs down. I watched the bulbs burst the second they made contact with the cold cement of the sidewalk. I watched the lights explode into the night sky and fade into the darkness. I watched the light disappear. I was suddenly discouraged after the thirtieth bulb and sulked back to the front steps of our building.
I sat down on the front steps of our building and waited three hours to watch my mother come home with a smile on her face for the first time since we’ve moved here. Apparently she got promoted today; she’ll make enough to only have to work two jobs. Not exactly a miracle, but it’s definitely helpful. She’ll be able to spend a little bit of more time with me. She’ll make more money; we’ll eat more than corndogs for all three meals, and I’ll be breaking more bulbs tomorrow night.