I think the movie got it wrong.

I have grown tired of those cliche movies when the girl realizes that the perfect man for her is the one she has had all along, whether he was back home or his best friend. It is just something right under your nose. It has never happened to me, and until it does, I wil be busy smiling and receiving phone calls at 2 in the morning, hearing your guy problems. But in every lie, there is always a hint of truth. This break, I have found what I have been looking for. I am not looking for the perfect man or even the perfect woman anymore. But I was looking for home. I'm not sure if I can call home my home or Atlanta my home or Asia my home. And within a week, I realized that this is honestly the greatest city in the face of the earth. And I have access to it. While the rest of this country is locked in on being American (besides maybe Texas), I am convinced that I am not one. I have all the respect for this country and I thank God day in and day out that I am able to live here. But at the end of the day, they are like Emory sports teams. I may check it out on the news or watch two games a year, but I will not be wearing face paint and spelling out letters on my beer belly. I will not lose my voice for it. I will not smile each time I hear America. At least not the way I do when I hear New York. I will fight for New York. I will die for New York. I will act a fool for New York. This is my city. This is my town. This is my home.

Away from New York, I find myself wondering how many other minorities are here with me, feeling alone on a day to day basis. But in this city, I find myself asking, where on earth are all the white people? And I do meet white people, it is a pretty good bet that they are Jewish. And in that moment, amidst the several languages and honks of taxi cabs, I know that life is what it should be like. I spent my first day sleeping as the familiar ruffles of the newspaper from my father and noodles frying in the kitchen create the soundtrack for my life. Forget Elton John, the All-American Rejects, or Jay-Z. My brother's farts and my sister's yelling of "DIDI!!! YOU'RE HOME!!!!" are my soundtrack. And though I may snore away these noises, I hear them and they only make me more comfortable, prolonging the hours that I can sleep all day.

There was something exotic about college, something about the fact that no one knew me and I could start anew. I could recreate my identity and they would have no idea where I am coming from. I could even lie to make them think I was someone when I really wasn't. But that has worn off. There is now something about going to dinner with a friend from Kindergarten, bringing up old memories of past crushes and weird habits like rubbing Elmer's glue into my palms and then eating the rubber substance that has been produced after it mixes with my palm's sweat. Whereas in college, a mistake will be looked upon as disappointing, a mistake at home will give the reaction of, "Well, at least it wasn't as bad as that time you..." and the laughs roll on. I want to be known and I do not want to sit at Starbucks for six hours once every two weeks to explain to a person who I am. At home, they know who I am. Everybody not only knows your name. They know what your name should've been, what you tried to change your name to, what your kids' names will be, and the name that you never want to be called, but they do it anyway.

When I was a kid, I used to watch hoity toity people on television watching this thing called opera. I never understood why people would pay hundreds of dollars to watch people singing incredibly high notes in a language no one understood. And then I saw Carmen. Within the first five minutes, I saw 7 horses, and a cast of over a hundred people on stage, with subtitles in the seat right in front of me. I was sold. With the student discount, I had paid 25 dollars for a four hour show. And as I stood off the exterior balcony, there I was with a view of the famous Metropolitan Fountain with crowds of people dressed with scarves covering their faces, but somehow you only saw smiles. There were the skycrapers and there were the people. I know people can just stop and stare at stars for hours. Here, in my city, I can stop and stare at this city for hours, and relish in the fact that I am seeing an opera performed in a different language while sitting next to the rich and famous from around the world. Where have I been?

And then there is 162. Gary. Ben. Tim. Gumby. Rebecca. Jerry. Bernadette. David. Wyman. Justin. The numbers and the names change every few yeras, as we add and subtract, but at the end of the day, this is who I keep coming back to. Whether it be movies, handball, basketball, the actual 162 park, the actual 162 school, video games, or poker, we congregate to share nothing more than the fact that we have an identity with each other. And that is probably why I was and still am content enough doing absolutely nothing as if we were in hicksville together, rather than doing all the things that New Yorkers are supposed to do.

When I was nine years old, I was a pervert. I used to watch "Married with Children" lustfully as Kelly Bundy entered through the door day after day with her mini-skirt, but also with a certain comedic quality that drew me along with milllions of other men to her. I used to fantasize just seeing her in person. This past Saturday, I got my wish. Sitting in the third row of the Broadway show, Sweet Charity, Christina Applegate was the lead role and danced and sung right in front of me. Feeling like a girl watching Leonardo Dicaprio during the Titanic days, I was captured by her and the fact that she is jsut another regular person.

Movies have a way of doing things to the human heart. RENT did that for me. Though RENT, the musical is probably about 15 times better than the movie, just hearing those songs performed and the storyline acted out was good enough fix for me. It reminded me of Bohemia New York that I was immersed in a few years ago. It reminded me of why this town is better than anything Atlanta has to offer. It reminded me of love. It reminded me of death. It reminded me songs, that strike that part of your soul you cannot define. It reminded me that there really is some magic in this city.

Even the fact that both my New York football teams lost today made me a little happy, in a sick sort of way. They both lost in heartbreaking fashion, but even in those moments, I was reminded of the '94 knicks, the '00 mets, the 95' yankees, the '02 giants, the '01 jets, and so on, when the anguish and heartbreak and disappointment in the teams that we have poured our hearts over brings this city a little bit closer together. And even though we may use every profane word in our mental dictionary, we will say "another year" and give everything we are to our team. I am a New York sports team, and ain't nothing any other place can have on that. I live and die with these teams, and I can see a hint of it with college football fans in the South. But you can't really compare pizza with grits. You just can't.

In exactly twenty four hours, I am leaving home. In twenty days, I will be back home. It's nice to say that. Not just in the Bayside, Queens home that I reside in. So how do I define home? 162. Chinese. American. Times Square. Pots and Pans drums. Nederlander Theater. The Fountain. Tribeca. Big Bowl. Poker. Lone. Hop Shing. Shishkabob. Farts. Snores. Park. Love. Life.

Was Dorothy from New York?