When most people think of New York City, the mental image that most tend to conjure up is an idea that I like to call the “urban forest.” A mass of steel and glass, rising vertically from the shore of the harbor. Buildings stacked up against one another, forming artificial valleys framing the streets below. The cacophony of traffic, street vendors, conversations, and the wind billowing down from above. They might think of the gritty streets, the trash bags, and the variety of characters you might encounter at any given moment. To many, the sheer sensory overload might make them feel uneasy, overwhelmed by the excesses of city life. Yet as someone born and raised in the midst of the urban thicket, I’d challenge that none of this (well with a bit of adjustment time of course) is excessive, but rather the ingredients for the world’s best playground!
Growing up by Chinatown, I found my neighborhood to be a place that provided me the opportunity to be able to freely explore and roam as a child. Slow traffic, crowded and busy sidewalks with ample businesses, and a plethora of other children all in the area made me never feel like I was ever really in danger in the city as a kid. Indeed, throughout my childhood, the city was making gradual improvements to the built environment as well, repaving streets, installing bike lanes, and implementing wider sidewalks and rebuilt parks in some areas.
Yet whether it be with my parents or teachers, throughout the first 10 years of my life I was always escorted wherever I went by an adult. There was only really one place where I was allowed to roam freely, and that was the neighborhood park, where my parents usually sent me off to summer camp. There I was allowed to frolic all around the park and even to the nearby ice cream trucks to my heart’s content. While I couldn’t go alone, being able to walk through a plethora of neighborhoods and spaces greatly developed my curiosity and sense of exploration as a kid.
It was in middle school that my life really began to pick up, when I was sent off to school in Chelsea, a 20-minute train ride from my home, and far away from where my parents worked. With my parents lacking the time to escort me to school every day, they made the choice to send me off to school on my own. From that day onwards, for at least 2 hours of the day, I was granted the gift of true independence. From the moment I left my home until the moment I walked into my school, there was nothing technically preventing me from exploring anywhere I wished. At first, I found it intimidating to ride the subway by myself, with the cavalcade of characters, from bored office workers, to beggars, to street performers, that would intrude upon my everyday commute. Yet within only a few months, I learned that most of these encounters were not truly dangerous, or even if they were, the blessing of anonymity, and their sheer numbers, would protect me from any serious threats.
Soon I began to experience the joys of free urban exploration. Gradually, my friends and I would begin to explore further and further out from the places that we were familiar with, riding the subway past my designated stop, curious of what lay beyond, walking from my school all the way to where the road met the river. The fact that I could interact with these spaces with my senses, whether it be through walking or taking public transit, rather than being trapped inside an artificial box such as a car or a playground, caused my imagination to run wild. In a very real way, this was the beginning of my journey to embracing urban planning as my calling.
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