A short story depicting 20 year old, Journey Andserson’s arrival in New York City.
My head spins as I take in my surroundings, the sights and sounds of the city are foreign to me. Lights flash as people walk up and down the crowed street, the air is thick and unfamiliar smells slap me in the face. New York is more than I could have ever imagined, so far it’s nothing like the life I was living three days ago. With that thought, memories of my small home town filled with familiar faces crosses my mind. That life seems so far away now, as I stand surrounded by never ending buildings and strangers who don’t acknowledge my existence.
As I walk, the brisk New York wind brushes against my face, I receive judgmental glares from each person that passes me. I look down at my dress and understand why, the simple attire is plain and sweeps down to my ankles showing my worn out boots. This is unfortunately my best outfit, living in the hills of Virginia doesn’t permit for flashy dresses and elaborate accessories. Having a coal miner for a daddy while he and Momma raised eight kids made us what they call, “dirt poor”.
Being poor didn’t keep me from being happy as I grew up, I was born the third child to Eliza and John Anderson in 1884. As the first daughter, my daddy tried his best to spoil me with what little money he made in the mines. When I was twelve years old he bought me my first violin, or as I call it, my first fiddle. I never knew I had a knack for music and entertaining people until I started learning to violin. I practiced everyday, learning knew songs to play for Momma and Daddy.
I look down to my left hand as it carries that same fiddle in the worn black case. That instrument is my most prized possession. It’s almost the only thing I have left, besides a few articles of clothes and a ragged suitcase. I had to sell my other belongings to make enough money to pay for my train ticket to this big city. I don’t regret it quite yet, this place is very intimidating, but I’m sure I can make a life for myself here.
