I landed in America on the 4th of July.

Coming to America: 11 years ago today, I started a new life in this insane experiment of a country. How do I feel about it now?

This piece was initially published in 2022.
I’m re-publishing it today as I only had a few hundred subscribers back then. I’m grateful to you and for reading! Please share this with anyone you think might like it.

Diary Entry:

July 5th, 2014
Honolulu, HI

I landed in America on the 4th of July.

Last week, I donated or sold just about everything I’d accumulated over 29 years living in Australia. The stuff I kept was crammed into two bloated suitcases before squeezing onto a plane to start a new life: No plan, no job waiting, and no idea what I was going to do when I landed.

The Americans seemed very happy to see me when I landed — they threw a big party with fireworks and everything. People even took Monday off work!

It was a sorely needed reprieve from the anxiety-riddled gauntlet of these previous two years, waiting desperately to hear from the United States Citizenship & Immigration Service (USCIS) on whether the latest stage of the green card application had been approved, so I could move forward.

The hundred-odd nights leading up to the final ‘Permanent Resident’ status being approved were pure torture. I ground my teeth down to powdery nubs in my sleep, confabulating every conceivable nightmare scenario where something went wrong, and I had to go to the back of the line and start over.

I have mad respect for anyone who has ever tried to emigrate to the United States and understand the deep, profound relief of getting your passport stamped and stepping past the Customs desk for the first time as a newly minted resident.

When you land in the US and pass customs, there’s a huge escalator that takes you down to baggage claim. Just overhead, as you descend, are an enormous American flag and a picture of the incumbent Commander in Chief off to the side.

It is 2014. Barack Obama is president, ‘Gas’ is $3.63 per gallon, and my arm is still swollen from the eight vaccinations I had to get before flying to the US. Is Polio still a thing? And what the hell is Pertussis?

July 29, 2014
New York, NY

After a month of crashing at a friend-of-a-friend’s apartment in Inwood, I finally found a place to live. The hunt for an apartment in New York is incredibly challenging when you, A.) Don’t have a credit rating, B.) Don’t have a rental history and C.) Don’t have an entire year’s worth of rent in the bank. Some places ask for twelve months’ rent upfront. It’s crazy. Who has that kind of money?

Finding it was a total fluke: a perfect New York moment:

Sophie had been invited by a friend to an event at the Australian Consulate-General in midtown. After a few free chardonnays, she got chatting with the hilarious bartender, who mentioned she knew someone who might have a place we could see, but she wasn’t sure if it was already rented out.

The place was in Alphabet City:

The lowest, Eastest part of the Lower East Side. We took a cab down the following afternoon. The whole neighbourhood is legendary for hosting —at one time or another— some of the greatest creative minds in music, painting, writing, and acting.

There’s an energy to the place that buzzes through your whole body. The sirens, the smells, the mess of it all. It’s some real old-school New York shit, and I really like it.

After passing about 20 bodegas and several prehistoric dive bars, we pulled up in front of an old building about a block south of the Nuyorican Poets Café, between Avenues C and D. It was affectionately called “Bullet Space”.*

*Bullet Space was so named because back in the 80s, it was the best spot to get high-quality cocaine in New York. Movie stars would send their nervous assistants downtown, sometimes with a gun, to retrieve it. They didn’t always expect them to return. (Bullet refers to the snuff bullet, one stores their cocaine in. I’m told.)

[ This is the building we would end up calling home for the next seven years.]

The pre-law tenement was built in 1867 and was originally constructed as part of a row of three. The other two buildings had since been demolished. The original owner, John G. Costar, became very wealthy when he sold his previous property to John Jacob Astor for the construction of the Astor House.

“Up To Code”

In 1983, an artist named Andrew Castrucci, along with his brother and a friend, moved into this building as squatters. They put on art shows and plays in their space and called their gallery and community Bullet Space. In 1998, the New Museum of Contemporary Art held an exhibition that showcased Bullet Space’s art, poetry readings, and performances.

In 2002, after a deal negotiated by the City and the Urban Homesteading Assistance Board, the squatters, who were lighting fires inside to stay warm and lugging water from the sidewalk fire hydrant up the stairs in buckets, were allowed to purchase the building for $1 and become its legal occupants.

I buzzed 5B and didn’t get any response. I peeped in through the glass door to see that the lobby was an art gallery space. There was an exhibition of paper maché heads and other cool oddities.

I tried a few more times, then called the number I was given by the bartender, and the landlord picked up. “Sorry, I’m out the back!” she said. “Let me come get you.”

I waited by the door, next to an old chair with a crutch leaning against it (“John’s chair”, where he waits for his sandwich.) until a short, dark-haired woman came to the door, all smiles.

She was with a friend and invited me up to see the place on the 5th floor of the 147-year-old walk-up. I had to stop on the 4th floor to catch my breath and wipe the sweat out of my eyes. I looked up and saw an entire American flag made out of Coke and Pepsi cans.

Made by Rolando Politi, in 4A. A drawing just wouldn’t have captured it…

No air conditioning, no elevator, just some old steps and bannisters made out of scraps found around the city over the years. It was perfect.
We finally got up to 5A (“Hey, same apartment number as Jerry!”) and pushed open the heavy steel door.

It was basically a kitchen with a bathroom attached to it. There was a bunk above the sink if anyone wanted to crash and didn’t mind the sound of the dripping tap. There was a small spider hanging from the bookshelf. We called him John Jacob Astor.

The bedroom was the size of a walk-in closet, with an old mattress on the ground and an old, non-functioning air conditioner hanging out of the window. The only light was from a bulb plugged into an old lamp base on the ‘bedside’ table. If I climbed onto the roof, I could see the top of the Empire State Building.

The landlord asked what I did, and mentioned that everyone in the building is an artist of one kind or another:

“There’s a drummer, a couple of painters, a junk artist, a photographer, a writer, oh —and the poet laureate of the Lower East Side.” They’ve all lived here for decades and are probably still paying rent in beaver pelts and rare trinkets.

After a few beers, we discussed the rent. It was high for what it was, but low for immigrants with no rental history. We were told that to stay there, you had to make your living as an artist. I pulled out a pen, asked for a scrap of paper, and drew a 45-second sketch of the landlord.
She took it, smiled, and said, “The place is yours if you want it!”

We moved in the next day.

Update: July 2017 — He’s the President. He’s actually the President. What the hell?

Update: July 2020 — Whoa.

Update: July 2023 — I just officially became a US citizen today. Looks like I’m sticking around!

Update: July 2025 — Well, shit. This is fun. 🫣

Photos from Bullet Space:

“John’s Chair”