Stay a While

I look out my living room window and in one glimpse I know I’m not in Kansas anymore, or at least not in Guilderland. I’ve only displaced myself twelve miles from the suburbs where I grew up, but in that distance I have entered a completely different reality.

My most immediate observation, as I sit here in my rented flat in the Stockade District, is the symphony of a dozen wind chimes clanging together outside my window. On windy nights, the intermingling pitches of steel, tin and glass cut through the air and I am reminded that city dwelling causes people to live more closely, interact more often and ultimately influence each other’s lives more readily.

On my quiet urban street, oversized holiday wreaths still linger on front doors and empty flower pots lay stacked underneath rusted mailboxes nailed to the siding. Every third house is flanked by an electric pole with a web of cables stretched between adjacent roofs. And since the homes are butted up so close together, I can catch a couple minutes of whatever mini-series is being televised on the giant flat screen across the street.

Fortunately, I share a gravel driveway with my upstairs and next door neighbors. With a good ten feet separating the houses, there is a hefty channel through which the sun can pass, filling my first floor apartment with more natural light than most urban homes. But at the risk of being an unfriendly yet safety conscious tenant, my blinds are almost always drawn.

And of course, what would inner city living be without a block party? One usually expects a mid-summer barbeque, with a giant stereo blaring and an open fire hydrant. However, that wasn’t the case when I found myself at the end of my block in early February, surrounded by fellow Stockaders, a couple of news crews and the Schenectady Fire Department.

We had all assembled to watch the Mohawk River barrel downstream after having flooded the banks of the Stockade. A frozen corridor of the river had melted, giving way to a rush of built-up current, raising the water level some twelve feet. The untamable presence of the Mohawk reminded me that the natural world is alive and well here in Schenectady, amidst construction and commerce, broken windows and traffic lights.

When I arrived on my street, the swell of frigid water had already receded from the shoreline. The aftermath left frozen debris all the way up to my doorstep, situated four houses from the water’s edge. Bolder-sized ice chunks looked more like the remains of a meteor shower or the foundation of a kryptonite castle.

This year’s flooding was by far the most exciting geological event I’ve witnessed since living in Peru last year, where the earth seemed to rise and depress in epic proportions. Returning home felt like stepping off a high altitude precipice and finding myself once again at the sea level of my own life.

Just as the Mohawk had cracked through its surface and overflowed only to return to its usual pace and direction, I too had been stretched only to fall back on something slightly familiar. And Schenectady is slightly familiar.

Growing up in Guilderland, I remember visiting the Carl Company store for girl scout uniforms and eating “mouse trap” (i.e. grilled cheese) sandwiches at the department store's small cafeteria. My parents brought me to Proctors for the Melodies of Christmas and the Broadway tour of Cats. I remember taking ice skating lessons at the Union hockey facility or bringing friends to Center City.

And of course, I still light up when I see the landmark GE sign perched over the highway glowing with red, white and blue on the Fourth of July as my family and I drive home from Lake Sacandaga.

This is probably how much of suburbia experiences Schenectady - frequenting the theater, restaurants, sporting events and most recently, the Sunday morning farmer’s market underneath Proctors. Come in for an evening, drop a couple bucks and return to the relative safety that lies on the other side of town.

I don’t blame others for their hesitant entry into the city of Schenectady. We’re all afraid of the unknown, especially when the unknown becomes known through repeating news stories on crime, poverty and the overall depression that the city has become known for.

But this city is now my home and home to a great many people of diverse backgrounds and stations in life. Schenectady is a city that seems to be re-creating itself from the sidewalk up. It is a city of public parks, local businesses and every major language, and some unheard of, which are spoken at checkout counters and bus stops.

It is a city with a history, both dismal and dynamic, and a future, both unpredictable and possible. But for now, it has the present. And I am living in it.

In getting to know a place beyond what appears obvious, it takes some intentional wandering and a healthy dose of curiosity. In order to find some of the truths and treasures of this town, I’m planting some roots and plan to…stay a while.