At 22, I seemingly had it all. I lived in a narrow but sunny apartment in a well-kept brownstone on a gorgeous, winding block in the historic West Village of the best city in the world: New York. And on weekday mornings, I waitressed at the Cornelia Street Café.
With the rest of the city tucked into their office buildings and schools, I’d throw open the French café doors at 9am and set the rickety wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk. Within a few minutes, the neighborhood bachelors arrived for their cappuccinos and morning cigarettes. I’m sure I had female customers too, but I remember the men most of all. Other than an exchange of “good mornings,” their only other communications were hand signals for “more coffee” and “check.”
I sat at the bar with a full view of the customers. Sipping my café au lait, I did what everyone was doing: reading the Times, doing the crossword. But I’m not sure the guys were also looking at Anna Quindlen’s columns like I was.
I didn’t know what an essayist was. All I knew was that Quindlen had a weekly column of text on the right-hand side of the last page––and she filled this dedicated space with words about adult issues I didn't wholly understand: marriage, death, children, career, relationships. But what I lacked in Life Experience, I made up for in Emotional Intelligence. Through the craft of her essays, I could sense the pains, joys, injustices and celebrations––so I cried and cheered right along with her.
On the surface level, it looked like I was a 22-year-old café waitress. But the deep undercurrent of my life was flowing. Without knowing Anna Quindlen, I thought she was a brave woman for giving public voice to the private thoughts in her head and feelings in her heart. She made me want to write like her. I mustered up the courage: If she can do it, why can’t I?
