Home Sweet Home

To the heart of Flushing,

My house on 211 Street isn’t big like the houses in front of us, behind us, and to our right and left. But it isn’t exactly small, either. As kids, my brothers and I never asked our friends to come over for playdates, especially not my little brother whose friends all lived in mansions that took up the equivalent of two New York City avenues, and had enough space for home gyms, which became the envy of all during COVID. 

We didn’t have one of those white picket fences boxed around regularly mowed lawns. Our neighbors did. But we had the tree, up front for all to see. The Japanese maple tree—with branches that reached into the sky and three-point leaves that Mother Nature colored with the richest of reds, the sunniest of yellows, and the brightest of oranges through the seasons. That tree, our tree, offered the right amount of shade for our parked minivan or the kid who needed a break from the heat on a hot summer day.

This house—the not-so-big and not-so-small one with the tree on 211 Street—was where I slept, where I ate, and where I memorized the opening lines to Don Quijote in Spanish the night before my midterm.

But throughout high school, that house was never my home.

In 9th grade, the minute track practice ended at 4pm, my friends and I, eager to maximize our post-practice-pre-dinner-study-time, would change out of our too-short shorts into our past-knee-length-dress-code abiding pants, zip up our backpacks and head for Flushing Library, my home from freshman year to senior year, weekdays, 4-6pm.

It was a safe haven for some, a multipurpose center for many, and a place for all—the poor, the rich; the young, the old; the weak, the strong

Where the people half my height could play with the minds that created Winnie the Pooh, The Cat in the Hat, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Where the immigrant who was more familiar with gestures than the spoken word was never judged by a native who never had to worry about things like accents and pronunciation.

Where freeloaders like my mom could borrow a computer for an hour, and sometimes more, because she was smart enough to ask me and my brothers for our library card numbers.

My friends and I usually sat in the nonfiction aisle for letters P through R on the 2nd Floor. We never looked at the books behind us. We would open up other things. For me, the electric blue College Board Official SAT Study Guide—my Bible from ages 15 to 18—995 pages of practice problems written in the same format as the actual test. Scoring above the 90th percentile was sure to secure you a spot in an elite institution.

And I wanted to go where the rest of the elites were. Because ever since preschool, I thought I was called to be the student who was better than.

Mrs. Joanna had asked the class to color in our letter U handouts. I gave my letter U stripes and used more than one crayon—purple then green, purple then green. Mrs. Joanna came over and picked up my handout. No one else’s. Mrs. Joanna asked Mrs. Deirdre to come over and take a look at my work. No one else’s. Mrs. Joanna whispered the words “Wow, this is something else!” No one else’s. And that awakened my obsession with being the best.

I grew up nursing that desire to belong on top. Whether that meant getting picked to represent my school for the Spelling Bee, being the first Student of the Month, getting a grade above 95, or receiving a simple, straight A.

Then “Ivy League” entered my vocabulary in 5th grade—two words I started juggling in my mind after my teacher said “You’ll definitely get into one of those places, Esther.” Those places became the coveted prize, the reason for all my hard work. The only way I knew how to get into one of those places was with the SAT. And the only way to achieve on the SAT was with an excellent work ethic. And no other place welcomed that more than the library.

I chose Flushing Library to be my keeper, to deliver me from the rest of the world’s values about making it. Within its walls, my way of life was honored. Study, study, study, and then study some more. Numbers gradually became my only metric for success and along with that happiness. The empirical evidence that confirmed whether or not I was the best, or at the very least better than.

But even when I wasn’t the best or better than, I knew the library would never turn me away. I’d still be asked to come in, find a seat on the 2nd floor by letters P through R, and study, study, study for the next time around. Numbers can say a lot, but what they say doesn’t have to be permanent. Flushing Library, or home, was where I learned how to make the most of second chances, because it first allowed me to be all kinds of me—when I was good, okay, better or the best.

Sincerely, Esther