It was 3 a.m. and it was time to leave. My train to Los Angeles would arrive at 6:30 a.m. in the next town over, about a three-hour walk away. I got my two bags, my blanket, and all of the courage I had to exit out my apartment door. Each step I took, through the crop fields, was as doubtful as the next. With each step, I wanted to turn back, and call it a day; but I didn't. Instead, I kept walking, forcing myself not to look back.
At the train station, in Merced, I arrived at 6 a.m. I waited 30 minutes for the train, but a 5-minute wait would have still tempted me to turn back. How long until they noticed I was gone? I asked myself. I felt nauseous, and tears welled up in my eyes, but it was too late.
I arrived at LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) at 10 a.m. that morning, but I was there early. My flight would not depart until the following day, at 2 p.m. Oh, this gave me anxiety. I was still in California, damn it! I could easily turn back, and tell my family this was all a joke. But I didn't.
Instead, I spent the next 24 hours in Los Angeles.
My night in Los Angeles, CA
My night in Los Angeles was the most surreal. I had lived in California my entire life, but rarely went to L.A. So I went exploring. I walked around L.A. near the airport and I couldn't believe the strangeness of the place. The people walked different. The buildings looked different. The air smelled different. It was a completely different world, compared to my small town, yet it was only a two hour drive away.
The next day, an hour before my plane arrived, I rushed to the restroom and threw up. I followed that with one of the biggest sobs of my life. It was so intense, that the guy one stall over asked if I needed help. I told him kindly no, and that it was just nerves overwhelming me. I boarded the plane, only looked forward and forgot Chowchilla, California.
He pulled out a knife
I eventually moved in with my cousin. But before that, New York had already kicked my ass. I had a couple of crazy roommates that forced me to endure one of the most traumatizing experiences of my life. One pulled a knife on me and I wasn't even a part of the issue — the issue was with my other roommate. I was only the idiot caught in the middle, arrived right in the heat of things and had no time to think. He grabbed me by my shirt, shook me until it ripped and continued to point the knife towards me and my other roommate, yelling something about a stolen shirt. Our neighbors must've heard the ruckus, because a few seconds later the cops came in. They could clearly see I was in distress and let me go. I ran out and walked to the 24 hour McDonald's on 42nd street.
You would think that that would have made me move back to California, but it didn't. Instead, I vented. I called my sister in California at 2 a.m. and balled my eyes out. I told her I had had enough of the city, this was too hard and that I wanted to return home. She encouraged me to stay and I am glad she did. I was only happy she answered and I was able to be the biggest baby in the world for the entire 20 minutes of that call. My determination to survive New York renewed that night and with my roommate in jail, I had time to move out and go live with my sane cousin.
But only one regret
I was 19 years old when I left California; it's been six years since then. I don't regret moving to New York. The only thing I regret is not telling my family right away. I should have been strong enough to tell them. But I was afraid. I knew that if I had told them, my mother and my sisters would have convinced me so easily to stay. They had a hold on me and I couldn't break free from it. I don't know why that was, all I knew was that I was not strong enough to deal with that type of force at the time and so I kept it a secret and left.
Now I sit here in my New York apartment, thinking back and I am crying. I am crying because I made it. All my life I've been the little brother, the son, the cousin, the uncle in my family, and nothing else. Now, I am my own person, grounded, bruised up, but still standing nevertheless.
