My First Week in NYC
a tale of bad roommates, scary dogs, and crutches
I recently took the stage to perform at a storytelling event for Generation Women, a monthly multigenerational storytelling event series based in New York City, featuring women and non-binary storytellers from their twenties to their eighties. I first discovered Generation Women when my friend Shelbi performed. Throughout the course of the evening, I laughed, I cried, and I left inspired and excited about aging. I recently turned 40 and listening to someone in their 80s wax poetic about doing comedy sets invigorated me. I have so many versions of myself I haven’t met yet and that’s thrilling. So when I got the chance to perform, I jumped at the opportunity. The theme for February was “falling.”
Nearly 7 years ago, fresh out of a 14 year relationship (11 years married) and after the tragic loss of my father due to overdose, I impulsively moved to NYC. Below is the truncated version of my first week here. I can look back at this story and laugh now because it was very comical in a lot of ways and ironically, the story is actually a lot worse than what I share below, but nonetheless, I present to you my story of falling (quite literally). If you prefer to watch me perform it, you can watch it below instead. If you choose this option, still skip to the bottom after watching for the last volume of Unapologetically Difficult Women.
It was August 2019. My dad had recently passed away unexpectedly. I had just left an 11 year marriage. I was — a mess.
Everyone handles their mess differently. Some people go to therapy. Some people cut their hair. Some people, like me, decide that the only way to fix their mess is to move to NYC, after living in Wisconsin their entire adult life. More than anything else I wanted a fresh start…space to create something new.
A work colleague knew someone called Katie who was looking for a roommate. My colleague set up a call for us.
‘It’s a great-sized bedroom, with your own bathroom’ Katie said. ‘It’s in Fort Greene, super cute neighborhood. You’ll love it here.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ I said, looking around my two-story townhouse with an attached garage. ‘I’m willing to downsize. How much is the rent?’
There was a pause. I braced myself — I knew New York rents were expensive and I was a newly separated entrepreneur.
‘Just give me five hundred dollars and we’ll work it out once you get here.’ She replied.
I hesitated. ‘I really need to know the actual amount so I can budget—’
‘Don’t worry about it,” she cut me off. “Five hundred for now. We’ll figure out the rest later.’
Two weeks later I arrived at Katie’s door with 2 large suitcases and three boxes en route via Fedex, anxiety and excitement radiating from my body.
Katie opened the door with an unexpected guest — a dog, wearing a muzzle and barking ferociously.
“OMG hiii,” I said, swaying back. “– I didn’t know you had a dog.”
Katie replied, “Don’t worry, Rocco is so friendly once he gets to know you. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers or doorbells or sudden movements but other that, he’s the sweetest”
I felt uneasy, but I pushed it down. I was in NYC in my new apartment.
Katie gave me a tour. To my relief, it was a cute apartment and it had a backyard!
“Where’s my room?” I asked.
“This way,” she said, leading me downstairs to a room the size of a walk-in closet. I immediately noticed there were no windows and harsh florescent lighting — but who cares, I was in NYC! The place I would find myself. So what I’d be living in a dungeon? It was my dungeon.
I dropped my bags. “So, how much is the rent?’
She waved me off. “Just get settled in!”
On my second night, Katie suggested we have a glass of rosé over the firepit in the backyard and get to know each other.
“It’s so wild that you are living with me,” Katie gushed, “I’ve been following you on the internet for so long. I’m a huge fan and now we’re going to be best friends.”
I didn’t know Katie was already familiar with me. Something about the way she was talking was giving me Single White Female vibes.
“Wow…thanks”, I replied, unsure of what else to say. “I’m just so excited to be here.”
Katie went on, her words slurring, which was odd because we had only had one glass of wine. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay the rent next month.”
‘My stomach dropped. “Um what?” I asked. Not because I didn’t actually hear but because I was hoping that my ears were betraying me.
“I said I don’t know how I’m going to make rent next month. I don’t have any money.”
“Oh. Okay.,” was all I could manage. My mind was going a million miles a minute. What does she mean she doesn’t have any money? What am I doing here? Should I even give her the $500 I agreed to? What does this mean for me? “Look, I really need to know how much the rent is,” I said, trying to sound like a New Yorker — firm.
She stared at me, somewhere between adoring and drunk. “How about $2,000?”
I gasped. “For a closet?”
She shrugged. “It’s New York.”
Over the next couple of days, things kept getting weirder and weirder as Katie revealed more about herself. Things like – her sleepwalking tendencies, her past issues with roommates over her proclivities to eat their groceries during her sleep walking escapades, and the time she accidentally punched her roommate while sleeping walking. I started sleeping with my door locked. Rather than pursuing my new life in New York, I was just hoping my new roommate wasn’t going to cut me in the middle of the night.
On Day 5, everything went to hell. As promised Rocco had somewhat gotten used to me. But when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of my friend, Amara, a muzzleless Rocco went haywire. I opened the door and all hell broke loose as he leapt towards Amara.
She screamed. I screamed.
“Katie! Help!”
KATIEEEEEE
KATTIEEEEEE….GET THE FUCK IN HERE!!!”
Chaos ensued as I tried to get between Rocco and my friend.
Finally, Katie appeared and tried to wrangle Rocco.
“Just go downstairs”, she yelled at me.
I lurched toward the staircase — and the top step wasn’t where it should have been. My hand grabbed for the railing and caught nothing but air. Suddenly I was falling, the world tilting sideways as the stairs slammed into my back, my head, my ankle — my body bouncing like a basketball all the way down. I landed at the bottom in a hard, hollow thud.
As I lay on my back, with my arms splayed above my head, ankle throbbing and quickly swelling, I thought to myself, “I have to get the fuck out of here.”
I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, Amara came to pick me and my suitcases up and brought me a pair of crutches.
Two days later, I was hobbling down the streets of Brooklyn on crutches on a beautiful, warm, perfect day, the kind of day that makes you never want to leave the city. I was in shambles, balling my eyes out from both physical and emotional distress. I had no place to live, no steady income, and no will to keep trying. If only my life was a Hallmark movie. Because this would be exactly the moment that a tall, handsome, wealthy, British gentleman who splits his time between London and NYC would appear, and have just the thing I need – an apartment I can live in for free. But this wasn’t a Hallmark movie. This was my real life, and it sucked.
I was completely dejected. So dejected that I almost packed up and went home. And if it weren’t for Amara—who let me crash on her couch for three weeks and fed me carbs and told me to cry as much as I needed to—I probably would have. And so I persisted, found a new apartment, and now nearly 7 years later, I’m still here. I have found myself and I love her! And most importantly, I have lived to tell the tale.
New York is full of colorful characters who make for great stories but terrible roommates. It’s a city that will test you, trip you up, and make you question everything. But here’s what I learned: if you can survive your lowest point — if you can get back up when you fall — you can make it. Not because you’re invincible, but because you’re stubborn enough to try again. And once you’ve made it here, you can truly make it anywhere.
I’m an Unapologetically Difficult Woman – Volume 3
In case you missed it, in honor of Black History Month (which is really just American history) and in honor of difficult women, each newsletter this month was inspired by a “difficult” Black woman. I already talked about Angela Davis and Sojourner Truth.
“Women who think critically are always labeled difficult because it saves the world from admitting they’re right.” — bell hooks
For the final volume, I’m sharing with you the incredible Hazel Scott, whom I just learned about this week through a delightful historical fiction book, With Love From Harlem, by ReShonda Tate. I was so fascinated by the life of Hazel Scott that it took me a while to get through the book because I kept stopping to research facts that came up in the book.
The first being that she infamously played two pianos at the same time.
Born in 1920 in Trinidad, Hazel moved to NYC with her mother as a small child. She began performing as early as 13 years old, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington, and Dizzy Gillespie.
In addition to being an incredible pianist, Hazel Scott was also an activist, eventually marrying (and later divorcing) Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., the first African American elected to Congress from New York.
After making her way on Broadway and eventually to Hollywood, she faced racial injustice, fighting for roles that didn’t portray her as a maid and for equal pay. She also caused waves because she refused to play for segregated audiences. In 1950, she became the first Black woman to host her own television show, The Hazel Scott Show. Unfortunately, her show was abruptly cancelled after less than a year because she was accused of Communist ties. Despite vehemently denouncing her political affiliation with the Community Party, her show was cancelled.
Scott later moved to Paris, continuing to perform and gather with other Black artists and writers such as James Baldwin and Miles Davis.
You can read more about the incredible life of Hazel Scott here. Also, if you’re looking for your next great read, definitely pick up With Love From Harlem.
February has come and gone in a blur. In honor of Black History Month, I’m asking people to support my work financially by becoming a paid subscriber. And if you don’t have the means, then share this newsletter which someone you think would enjoy it.
Thank you so much for reading The Liberation Collective. I’m eternally grateful to have you here. You can also follow along on Instagram and TikTok. And if you want to partner with me, you can email me at info@chrissyking.com
Enjoyed this article but not ready or able to become a paid subscriber? Buy me a coffee instead.
P.S. — my inner circle is where people get all the extras — journal prompts, my favorite things, and behind the scenes bonuses.
Support Black Women Writers.
Your support as a paid subscriber on my Substack is essential to sustaining the work I do. I’m committed to keeping my writing accessible to everyone, but to maintain this structure, I need your help. By subscribing, you’re not just supporting me, a Black woman writer, you’re investing in a platform that’s committed to sharing meaningful and thoughtful content.
Please consider joining as a paid subscriber today to support my work.
