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New beginnings

  • Writer: Adrianne Wright
    Adrianne Wright
  • May 7, 2023
  • 6 min read

Twenty years ago, I moved halfway across the country, from a small Texas town to New York City. I had gotten a job at the iconic network, MTV. At the time, everyone was watching it—it was sort of a transmission to this magical, envelope-pushing, deeply dimensioned place that you didn't get anywhere else. When I got the job, I heard a lot of "well, how'd ya get that?" and I'd smile, thinking that I myself didn't even really know. I had no idea who any of these musicians were, nor the shows. My knowledge of music consisted only of the doo wop sounds of the 60s and the rumbling voice of Elvis Presley. The music that my father listened to. The music that had become the soundtrack to my life. Unlike a lot of the people I met at MTV, I had come from a small liberal arts college in Texas that no one knew the name of. I was also an introvert, a non-functioning one with high-functioning anxiety, an outcome of a closed-off and traumatic childhood. In the cool and incredibly sociable environment at MTV, I'd break into a sweat in every big group setting, and eat lunch at my desk to avoid having to talk to people at "The Lounge," where everyone lunched and gabbed at. Many people thought I was a hard worker—and while I was, I was also just deeply uncomfortable with myself.


But despite being completely ill-equipped for this experience, as one is for any new chapter, what mattered to me more—more than any cool job—was the chance to see past the demons that haunted me, and start anew. It was a chance to learn for the first time, how to trust myself. A chance to see what was possible for me in this one life I had. There were barriers, of course, as it can be challenging to envision possibilities when you don't have much at all to start with. There I was, renting a 10 x 10 room at Saint Mary's, a nunnery on the Upper East Side, where I lived off of CVS coupons for discounted ramen and Campbell soup. It was the only place I could afford. There was no family wealth to tap into (though, bless his heart, my father would call and try to offer whatever dollars he could despite their own hard financial situation). I just knew that I had it in me. There was no doubt in my mind. After all, my father had sought political refuge there 20 years prior with next to nothing. I could feel him in this city, and I just knew that if he could do it, I could, too.


So on the weekends, after I filled my tummy with ramen or whatever canned good I picked up from CVS that week, I'd slip on my earphones and go on a date with the city. To the tune of Etta James and The Platters, the city became a musical. Interactions of work and grit and love became more noticeable. A man in an apron spraying down the sidewalk in front of a coffee shop. A woman rushing to the subway, her heels peeking out of her handbag. An elderly couple walking slowly down the street, as they exchanged glances at each other, holding hands and their canes. Down avenues and across parks, I would walk and walk and walk. Some days, if I had a few bucks to spare, I'd treat myself to a bagel and lean into the moment, absorbing the way the top of the bagel would crunch as I sunk my teeth into it, how the zest of the seasoning would tantalize and enchant my tastebuds, the soft, sweet cream cheese that would always find its way on my lips. There is something oddly soothing about being able to find your stillness when so much is moving around you. I felt like I was part of the fabric of New York. I was not the exception nor the minority. I was just me. And because of that, everything just felt possible.


Over time, I found myself subconsciously building this muscle, and it showed up most fervently as I moved from job to job, unwilling to succumb to the bullying, microaggressions and discrimination—invisible barriers that I had experienced my entire life. But I didn't feel proud about my newfound resistance. I felt embarrassed to be shifting so much. To have to explain when people asked, and navigate their expressions, from the fleeting jokes to the judgmental looks. I looked like a troublemaker. Someone who could never be satisfied. Who could never hold a job. But despite what I looked like to the people around me, I couldn't help but ignore this deep feeling in my heart. A voice that said I can't let these acts of oppression be my constant. I can't let them make me feel so small. Life has to be about so much more.


When one frigid night in New York City came, I was bundled up to go on a date with someone I hadn’t met yet. But before I even got to that date, I met Daniel quite unexpectedly, and my heart told me that I should stay. It's funny how the most magical things happen when you find yourself—in space and time—exactly where you're supposed to be. I had no idea that Daniel and I would enter such a beautiful partnership, exploring life so openly and willingly together. All the places, all the risks, all the shifts.


Three years later, we got married at the beginning of Spring —the Spring Equinox, representing a time of renewal, new beginnings of life and growth. I remember how that morning, we watched with baited breath as the rain clouds rolled in. We had no rain plan for our outdoor wedding. But somehow, just as the clouds rolled in, they broke apart and rays of sunlight found its way through. Spring Equinox has become a fitting symbol of our journey as partners, one full of life and growth, continuing to move forward, and never back, to embrace the energy that serves us, wherever it take us.


Soon, I became pregnant with Lily, and later Violet. They were both very challenging pregnancies, where I would spend weeks at the hospital, unsure of what would happen. I was devastated. But during both of those hospital stays, I remember looking out the window of my room. Pregnant with Lily at the time, I was struck by the sight of rows upon rows of radiant lilies framing the hospital. And later, when I was pregnant with Violet, my view was of violets in abundance. I remember thinking that if I really and truly believed in these two beautiful lives, that it would happen. And so I hoped, and I hoped that they would be here, and they would thrive. And then they were born, four years apart. Every time I see my girls, I can't help but think that they are proof that you can bloom wherever you're planted if you believe in it.


As Lily and Violet got older, we moved around exploring different places of possibility. Not because we had to, but because we could. Our most recent place: Nashville, Tennessee. Being here, Daniel and I began to have more talks about what it meant to support our daughters. We wanted to raise them to be kind humans, of course. But being a kind person is not a straight pathway—it requires one to have a vision for hope. And so we explored, individually and together, a very big and important question: how do we keep that hope muscle alive?


Peeling back all the layers of this, we knew that one can not nurture hope without acknowledging and deeply understanding the systems that are designed to take it away. We knew that as Brown girls, there will undoubtedly be challenges that they will face in their lives—just as I did/do—because of the color of their skin and their gender. We knew that this wasn't something that could only be cleared by intentional parenting style—it's about what's in the air around them, too. And helping them navigate that—with love and for love—is our responsibility.


And so, we are coming back on our grand return, once again, to New York City. The place where we both found, developed and nurtured our hope. But above all, the place we want to put down roots, mark a new narrative for our family—one of that begins with abundance—and pass on hope to our girls and the generations thereafter. While we won't sell our kids a perfectly wrapped world, we also won't sell them a world without hope and change either. We approach this decision aware of our privilege, and we're grateful to have had access to that yesterday and today. To change our conditions. To be there for our children in the way they need us to be. We remain grateful to our ancestors that did so much more with so much less so we could be here in this position today. And we only hope that we can do right by passing it on to the next generation. Hope is, after all, our legacy.


New York City (2004)

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@2023 by Adrianne Rose Wright

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