This Must Be the Place

this must be
the place
nina wilder

foreword
“Photographs are a way of imprisoning reality
… One can’t possess reality, one can possess
images — one can’t possess the present but
one can possess the past.”
Susan Sontag, On Photography
Tucked away in some corner
of my house is a bookshelf
stuffed haphazardly with
hundreds of Sam’s Club and
CVS photo envelopes, among other
miscellaneous family photographs. Each
envelope contains a set of film negatives
and printed exposures, which usually total
36 photographs, the standard amount for
a 35mm roll of film, and they document,
in thorough detail, the lives of my family
members from around 1997 to 2004.
(Which also happens to encompass
the first 6 years of my existence.) Most
of the images show me playing with
my older sisters, Pheiffer and Logan, at
various locales around Raleigh or North
Carolina, and some photo sets capture a
Christmas with the extended family or a
school play.
Every now and then, when I’m
feeling especially nostalgic or warm
toward my family, I sit cross-legged
in front of the bookshelf, pull out the
envelopes, and spend hours carefully
combing through their contents, stopping
frequently to take pictures of the prints
and text them to my family. Sometimes
one of my sisters joins me, and we peruse
slowly, taking in each photo, struggling
to recall its context and recount any
memory about the moment that we can.
My mom, like most people in the 1990s,
took photos of us on a film camera — a
Minolta 35mm SLR with a motorized
film advance and autofocus — and you
can see the amount of photographs drop
off toward the mid-2000s, when digital
cameras became a cheaper and more
accessible replacement.
Those photos, taken after the film
trail ends, are mostly lost to me, since it’s
not like my mom keeps an external hard
drive updated with all of the photos of
me and my sisters that she’s taken or
collected after our baby years. Plus, as
we got older, we became saddled with
problems like negative body images or
self-consciousness, and it’s a mystery
whether or not that many photos of me
actually exist following my adolescence.
(That aren’t selfies, of course.) But it’s
true: Digital photos are much harder to
keep track of across different computers
and phones, and it’s ostensibly easier to
preserve physical photos, as evidenced
by my mom’s extensive collection.
Although I’ve shot 16mm film
a handful of times for different movie
production classes before this semester,
I’d never tried 35mm still photography.
So, armed with a solid knowledge of
digital photography and the basics of
celluloid, I decided to undertake the
challenge of shooting solely on film
during my time in New York City. In
some ways, it was simply an experiment
in figuring out what I would have to do
differently in order to achieve photos
on par with what I capture digitally,
but I also found myself drawn to the
philosophy behind capturing images
on film. Whereas digital photos do not
occupy a physical space in our lives,
celluloid and prints do; film is a body
that can collect marks and scratches and
tears, enmeshing its own memory into
the photo itself.
I found that shooting film forced
me to be as meticulous and deliberate
as possible, far more thoughtful than
I’ve ever been with digital photography.
Purchasing, shooting, developing, and
scanning a roll of film is time-consuming
and expensive: a developed and scanned
roll of film, all said and done, costs around
$25 and yields 36 images. You can do the
math, but the point is, film is not a cheap
medium. The photos I took were at the
mercy of economic forces, and each frame
I shot was an investment, which inevitably
makes any photographer anxious while
shooting. I had to weigh my options
carefully — is this going to be a good
image? Can I achieve the composition
I want? Is the lighting good for the film
stock I’m shooting? Are my shutter speed
and aperture set properly? — before I even
thought about releasing the shutter.
I decided to write a collection
of essays to feature alongside my
photography because writing is not only
something I love to do, but it’s something
I have to do — I write to understand
myself as well as my surroundings,
and my writing is where I do most of
my self-reflection. All 4 of the essays I
wrote for this book discuss place, as well
as how I currently find myself situated
to those places, what they represent to
me, and I how I view them. My hope is
that they reveal how I think and how I
determine value, so that the reader can
better understand my process behind
shooting and arranging the photos in
this book.
My execution of this project,
very much like myself, was messy and
spontaneous and driven by passion,
anxiety, and bursts of inspiration. I tried
to reel my urges in a bit, instead of letting
myself loose on a long leash, and the
result is a pared-down representation of
my time in New York City. At the very
least, I hope this gives you a glimpse
into what my experiences here were like,
and perhaps encourages you to visit the
city that never sleeps yourself. It’s a hell
of a place.

fresh biscuits and warm smiles
This past summer I lived in Madison
County, North Carolina, a modestly
populated region located in the
western-most part of the state, pressed
tightly against Tennessee’s border and the
Appalachian trail. A small highway connects
the county’s more sizeable towns, and local
roads, precariously snaking their way up and
down the mountains, never widen to more
than two lanes in either direction.
Most of my time in Madison County
was spent driving, due to the sheer amount
of distance that separated one destination
from another, but I never particularly minded
it — there was something about the way a
mountain emerged from the horizon, jutting
out to a peak, that filled me with both awe
and apprehension, overwhelmed by the earth’s
ability to create such landforms on its own, and
a bit frightened, too. At times it felt as though
Appalachia never intended to welcome me or
its other residents — when a road’s turn was
a bit too sharp around a mountain’s curve my
heart would skip a beat, and I’d be reminded
that I was in God’s country, and only He was at
the receiving end of His creation’s full mercy.
(And I should note that I’m an unwavering
atheist, only further testament to the land’s
wraithlike atmosphere.)
Although I’ve considered myself a
southerner for as long as I can remember — I
was born in Raleigh to working-class parents
who drawl their vowels and wax poetic about the
good ol’ days of George W. Bush — Appalachia
made quick work of me, and I often found myself
reaching deep into my reserves of southern
lexicon and experiences to keep up. Of course I
like chicken and dumplings, corn bread, and apple
pie; it’s funny, my mom keeps a BB gun by the
back door to shoo away deer; yes, I’ve been fishing
on a Jon boat, at my Big Ma’s pond, actually; sadly,
my Papaw passed away years ago.
They were experiences and words that
I sometimes balked at uttering back home,
especially at Duke — my family’s socioeconomic
class has changed since my adolescence, and I’m
by no means from the middle of nowhere, but
to reveal that I have family members who live
in double-wide trailers is like stamping “white
trash” across my forehead; to out myself as a
thoroughbred southerner is to have all of its
stereotypes and shortcomings thrust upon me.
It never felt like I was consciously performing
my southern identity in Appalachia, but perhaps
rediscovering it, so I dug my heels firmly into
the land that birthed me and found that it was
much nicer not to pretend.
Time seemed to stand still in the
mountains. Everyone and everything moved like
molasses, but I never found myself longing for a
faster pace. I think that’s what I miss most about
the South — how much faster I felt in relation
to my surroundings. For some, this is the region’s
greatest downfall, evidence of its fondness for
regressive politics and lack of modernity, and for
those prone to restlessness, it probably seems as
though the South will never be able to provide
for its most ambitious dreamers. But in an era
of neoliberalism, where the individual’s ability
to lurch toward the future with insatiable hands
marks his highest worth, there are restorative
powers enmeshed in taking your time.
Sometimes I hated Appalachia. Ninetyeight
percent of Madison County’s residents
are white, as were most of the students I taught
while I lived there. The singular black girl whom
I met in Madison County, a rising sixth grader
from Mars Hill, confided in one of our program’s
teachers that she was terrified of entering middle
school because a few of the white children in her
fifth grade class started calling her the n-word.
She believed that it would only worsen as she
got older, and none of us — not me, or the other
interns, or the program’s staff, none of whom were
black — could do anything to comfort her or
convince her otherwise. We knew, in the deepest
pits of our stomachs, that she was right.
And the very last thing I want to do
is paint western North Carolina with a broad
stroke, because, as my time there taught me, it is
deserving of far more nuance and understanding
than it currently receives. But the deep-rooted
racism of the region is undeniable — even
though black Appalachians have provided some
of the area’s most rich and valuable history
— as is the overbearing presence of religion.
Crosses and churches pop up from the earth
like town homes in the suburbs, and there are
far more religious institutions than schools,
restaurants, or businesses. My boss was fixated
on her interns interacting with Appalachia in
“genuine” ways, and to her, that usually involved
attending Sunday church services, which were
unbearable for someone who hadn’t been in a
church since she was 7 years old. (Pentecostal
sermons are also sort of terrifying.)
And yet, some of the most earnest and
moving interactions I had during my time in
Appalachia were not in a church, but outside
of its walls: at a community barbeque, or in a
school’s classroom, or at a county-wide bluegrass
festival. They were the same Christians as those
inside the church, of course, but there, I could
speak to them not as people adjacent to their
oft-weaponized institutions, but as individuals.
I’ll never forget when our program coordinator,
a woman born and raised in Madison County,
told me that, in the previous summer, a student
in our all-girls program was a transgender boy.
I braced myself to hear something off-kilter or
ill-informed, but instead, her face softened, and
she lamented, “Some teachers refused to call
him by his preferred name, and it made me so
upset. At the end of the day, God loves us for
who we are. Who am I to tell someone else that
their existence is wrong?”
I could neatly tie up my experience
in the mountains with recklessly positive
declarations and a call for empathy, but I don’t
want to. I’m not a salesman for the South — and,
as a white woman, it’s not a position I should
ever occupy. What I can attest to, what I feel good
about telling folks, is that when I opened up my
heart to a place that was kind of like home but
also kind of not, I saw the beauty in searching
for a common denominator among the land,
its institutions, its people. And let’s be clear: I’d
rather die than chum it up with someone who
refuses to denounce racism and sexism and all of
the bad things that have found footholds in the
South. But Madison County, Appalachia, the
deepest parts of the South — they contain some
of the most empathetic and kind people I’ve ever
met, and, yes, some of them were devout white
Christians without college degrees, who lived in
double-wides and loved fishing and farming, and
they were fucking awesome.
I can’t say I’d ever place roots in
Madison County — I don’t think its vastness
could contain me. What I can say is that I miss it
like hell, the fresh biscuits and the warm smiles,
and I miss feeling like I belong, if even in the
smallest way possible.
LEFT: TRAFFIC AND CONSTRUCTION NEAR TIMES SQUARE. OCTOBER 2018.

CENTRAL PARK. OCTOBER 2018.

THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. OCTOBER 2018.

SUNFLOWERS AT A BODEGA IN BROOKLYN HEIGHTS. OCTOBER 2018.

CHLOE AT BONDI SUSHI IN MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. OCTOBER 2018.

BROOKLYN BRIDGE. NOVEMBER 2018.

MANHATTAN BRIDGE. NOVEMBER 2018.

JANE'S CAROUSEL. NOVEMBER 2018.

MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. NOVEMBER 2018.

a tiny kingdom
Hidden at the end of a cul-de-sac on
the outskirts of downtown Raleigh,
North Carolina is a brick building
that boasts: Wilder’s Inc., Bolts & Nuts. The
building is short and squat, only one story
tall, and the roof lifts up to the slightest peak
as it approaches the center of the building.
A faded blue awning overhangs the front
doors, which is the only part of the building
that isn’t flat from asphalt to roof. In other
words, it’s plain and easy to miss, unless
you’re specifically looking for it.
Wilder’s was founded and built by
my great-grandfather, Thomas Hardy Wilder,
in 1954, and he chose a spot in the heart of
downtown Raleigh for its location. In the
‘70s, though, he decided to purchase a plot of
land that’s a mere 10 minute drive away from
the city center, off Capital Boulevard, and
permanently relocated Wilder’s to the address
it’s at today. My great-grandfather constructed
the building by hand, laid every brick on
its facade, and poured all of the concrete
flooring. Perhaps calling Wilder’s plain is a
disservice — like my great-grandfather, the
architecture is both utilitarian and unfussy,
and there’s some implicit beauty in its lack of
complication.
In the 40 or so years that the building
has been around, it’s remained relatively
unchanged. Inside, Wilder’s is a vast, open
warehouse, and only a counter separates
the lobby from the endless rows of shelves
containing an inexhaustible variety of nuts,
bolts, and fasteners. Our employees, almost
all of whom I’ve known since I was born, sit
at the counter and wait on customers, and it’s
fascinating to watch them work — most of
Wilder’s employees were hired by my Papaw
and have worked there for multiple decades,
and their knowledge of our inventory is
astonishing. Huge 3-inch binders, full of
laminated pages detailing the various nuts and
bolts we stock, are available for reference, but
that’s it. There are no computers, no digitized
inventory, no barcodes. To say our business is
antiquated is putting it nicely.
Most of our customers are old white
men, and they’re men I’d describe as “good
ol’ boys” — gregarious and unreserved
southerners who swing open our doors, bellow
a hello to the guys at the counter and call
loudly for my dad to come out and chat. As a
third-generation family business, Wilder’s has
many, many regulars, who love to tell stories
about my late Papaw and bemoan how our
store is one of the only true Raleigh businesses
left. They respect the photos of Republican
presidents and conservative slogans that line
the lobby’s wall — to them, it’s an intimate
experience that only small, local business
can curate, and I’m inclined to agree, despite
how much I despise being confronted with a
Trump flag whenever I walk in.
I spent the better part of my
childhood running and weaving through
the store’s shelves, my bare feet picking up
every bit of dirt and grime on the concrete
floor, and, as I grew older, helping my mother
balance ledgers and stuff yellow invoices into
envelopes. It was like a tiny kingdom that I
could lay claim to, where everyone knew me as
“Tommy’s granddaughter” or a “Wilder girl,”
and I never exhausted of playing tricks on the
guys — mostly popping out of shelves and
scaring them — exploring the back offices, or
stealing knick-knacks from the attic. When
one of the employees would make me mad,
I’d remind him that I would be his boss one
day and stamp away indignantly to tell my
mom that Durwood or Dan or Dennis had
hurt my feelings. (There’s an incredibly odd
power balance between a bratty nine-year-old
heiress to a nut and bolt company and one of
its employees.)
I knew Wilder’s would all be mine
one day if everything proceeded as normal,
an old warehouse full of nuts, bolts, and
fasteners, but I was unsure if I wanted any it.
I’m still unsure. On a practical level, neither
my sisters nor I know very much about nuts
and bolts, and running a small business you’re
dispassionate about is fruitless. Perhaps more
critically, the store is fundamentally entangled
in my family’s paternal history. My Papaw, who
died in 2006 at the age of 66, was spiteful and
mean and difficult. I remember asking him
if I could have one of the pretty gold pocket
watches that he collected, and he swung one
in front of my face, replying, “You can have
this when I’m dead.” (He wasn’t lying: He
willed his stamps, pocket watches, and other
dated trinkets to me and my sisters.)
He openly weaponized Wilder’s, and
told my father, who began working at the
store as soon as he returned from military
service at 22 years old, that he would keep
him as poor as he could for as long as he
could. That all changed, of course, when he
died and my father inherited Wilder’s, but in
turn, he weaponized the store as righteously
as his own father had. Money, capital, wealth
— they’re deeply horrible things that we
cannot live without, that can be abused and
hoarded and used for insurmountable harm
that outweighs any good they might procure.
Being financially dependent on a person, on
a business, weathers the soul. On one hand,
Wilder’s is the reason I’m able to go to
college; on the other, it’s the reason I’m filled
with unspeakable anxiety whenever I think
about money or my family’s relationship to
our patriarch. If not for Wilder’s, I’d probably
be living near the poverty level; if not for
Wilder’s, I wouldn’t have to interact with the
person who has inflicted the worst emotional
pain onto me that I’ve ever endured.
Perhaps I’m convinced that selling
Wilder’s would release me from the lasting
hurt that its owners have given me, that I
could get rid of the building and my pain in
one fell swoop. I don’t have to decide right now
— that day feels centuries away, an exercise
in daydreaming in which I contain all of the
power that’s always been right under my nose
but far from my reach — but, for better or
worse, it will be mine someday, the bad parts
and the good parts alike, and I suppose that’s
pretty special. How many other people get to
say that, one day, they will have their own tiny
kingdom full of nuts and bolts?
RIGHT: A METAL STRUCTURE AT THE WHITNEY MUSEUM OF ART. SEPTEMBER 2018.

CHINATOWN. NOVEMBER 2018.

LITTLE ITALY. OCTOBER 2018.

MADISON SQUARE PARK. NOVEMBER 2018.

MADISON SQUARE PARK. NOVEMBER 2018.

SIDESHOWS BY THE SEASHORE AT CONEY ISLAND. OCTOBER 2018.

ART WALLS AT CONEY ISLAND. OCTOBER 2018.

NATHAN'S FAMOUS HOTDOGS AT CONEY ISLAND. OCTOBER 2018.

THE BOARDWALK AT CONEY ISLAND. OCTOBER 2018.

in the darkness
I
find myself in solitude most days.
Not alone, since the New York City
cliché about never finding privacy
in public spaces rings pretty true. But
turned inward rather than outward, not
seeking conversation or companionship,
just existing by myself. Part of it is a
reaction to being away from my home
and therefore my friends and family; part
of it is the desire to preserve some energy
to make the city’s day-to-day demands
less exhausting.
Inevitably, my solitude drives
me toward a movie theater. I had only
been in New York City for one full day
before I went to the Alamo Drafthouse
in downtown Brooklyn, where I caught
a screening of Pretty in Pink. It was the
eve of my 20th birthday, and I knew I
wouldn’t be celebrating it with anyone
whom I cared deeply about, and I’d
suddenly become overwhelmed with
sadness and loneliness. So I went to the
movies.
Movie theaters have always been
deeply therapeutic for me. It’s not about
film as a medium, per se — that’s a
different conversation altogether — but
the establishments themselves, the idea
that whenever I walk into a cinema, I’m
connecting to a cultural practice that’s
been shared for well over 100 years. And,
across different venues and cities, I can
expect a relatively unvarying process and
experience. It’s a way to immediately
ground myself in the familiar no matter
where I am.
So I suppose it’s my version of going
to church. I methodically pick a seat that
centers me exactly within the auditorium,
the best vantage point to view the screen.
I tuck my phone away, because even if it
turns out to be the worst movie I’ve ever
seen, I would never text in a theater. And
when the lights veer into darkness and
the projector’s bulb flicks on, catching
dust in its beam of illumination, I fall
silent, like a pastor has opened his Bible,
and I hold my breath in anticipation of
bearing witness to something beautiful
and spiritual and godlike.
Nothing holds more importance
in a cinema than a film, certainly not the
patron nor his concerns or woes; quite
literally, everything else surrenders to
the shadows. In the darkness, film works
its magic, and you begin to understand
why Plato’s subjects stayed in the cave
— although projections on a wall are
supposed to be mere replications of
reality, once you stumble out of the
theater and into the light, you find that
nothing is quite as in focus or immediate
as the images you saw onscreen. And
if you’re watching one of the greats —
Kurosawa or Fellini or Hitchcock —
the sheer detail of a film’s composition
floors you, and you quickly realize that
you never want to watch a movie on your
iPhone again.
It’s indisputable that the
technological era has given us every reason
to avoid movie theaters, or perhaps even
view them as nearing obsoletion. Movies
are no longer restricted to cinemas and
televisions since the rise of the screen era,
and some filmmakers don’t even shoot
movies with big screens in mind anymore,
given the understanding that their film
will most likely be watched on a 13-inch
laptop. And, sadly, we have less time in
our day for indulging in movie theaters,
with our bloated 40-hour work weeks and
hourlong commutes, and phones are easy
to pull out on the train or bus. Plus, I get
it, movie theaters can be incredibly shitty.
Old, torn fabric seats and overpriced
popcorn, couples making out in the back
row, someone chewing with their mouth
open, sticky floors and loud whisperers —
they suck.
And yet, we still flock to stadiums
to watch football games and arenas to see
bands perform, in spite of the fact that
watching the game at home or streaming
an album are far more economical,
convenient, and superior in quality. Of
course, we all know why we do those
things — to experience what we love with
other people who love it too, to view art
in a communal setting, to feel a little less
alone. (I’d also like to point out that all
of these places — stadiums, arenas, movie
theaters — have been targeted by violent
men with guns or bombs. Remaining in
public is an act of resilience.)
Perhaps most importantly, movie
theaters are one of the only tangible
things left we have with regard to movies.
Film lost its body when celluloid was
rejected for digital cameras, and DVDs
are slowly slipping into extinction with
the rise of online streaming. Cinemas
are spaces in which film is treated as
a medium deserving of full, undivided
attention, where everyone collectively
agrees to reserve two uninterrupted
hours of their day to participate in a
communal film-watching experience.
And, most certainly, no one cares if
you’re alone in a movie theater, because
when the lights dim and the projector
flicks on, “me” and “you” fade into a
movie and its audience, a pastor and his
congregation, preaching its sermon to
an enraptured crowd.
LEFT: THE VIEW OF MANHATTAN FROM THE BROOKLYN HEIGHTS PROMENADE. OCTOBER 2018.

CONSTRUCTION NEAR THE HIGHLINE. SEPTEMBER 2018.

VIEW OF CHELSEA FROM THE HIGHLINE. SEPTEMBER 2018.

CHINATOWN. NOVEMBER 2018.

CHINATOWN. NOVEMBER 2018.

LITTLE ITALY. NOVEMBER 2018.

LITTLE ITALY. NOVEMBER 2018.

MADISON SQUARE PARK. NOVEMBER 2018.

MADISON SQUARE PARK. NOVEMBER 2018.

a city of extremes
When I applied to Duke’s arts
and media program in New
York City, I wrote a personal
statement in which I detailed how Liza
Minnelli’s rendition of New York, New
York always makes me cry — how, no
matter what, once she croons, “If I can make
it there, I’ll make it anywhere,” I find myself
shedding tears, a mixture of happiness,
sadness, and desire. At least, I used to cry.
Whenever I hear it now, I just feel the urge
to change the song altogether.
I don’t hate New York City, but I
don’t really love it, either. I’ve heard people
say that it has to be one or the other, that
you’re either completely and relentlessly
infatuated with the city, or you’re utterly
spiteful of the whole damn place. And,
while I don’t necessarily agree with that
dichotomy, it’s a microcosm of the place
itself: Everything in New York City —
its people, its problems, its excitements,
its tragedies, its achievements — feel
as though they’ve been shoved under a
magnifying glass, where tiny dramas and
comedies play out every minute of every
day across all of the city’s gridlocked blocks
with immense grandeur and importance.
It’s a city of extremes.
It makes sense: in Manhattan, there
are 72,033 people per square mile, which
makes it the most densely populated
metropolitan area in America. We barely
have room to breathe. Everything seems
that much more personal, more immediate
— you can walk down a street in the
city and encounter both affluence and
extreme poverty, homelessness and excess,
neighborhoods functioning like small
towns. Land and space disappear into
skyscrapers, and your physical proximity to
both the world’s wealth and inequalities is
no longer a choice. And the worst part of
it all is that you barely have any time to
stop and process what you’re witnessing —
extreme wealth and extreme poverty — so
you hustle on like it’s normal or acceptable
for someone to be sleeping on the sidewalk
in the dead of winter.
Living in New York City is
exhausting. Almost every moment I’m in
public, I have to be alert, weaving between
people on the sidewalk or keeping myself
upright on the subway or looking out
for potential obstacles. If I let my guard
down or allow my mind to wander, I’m
liable to get run over by a pedestrian, or
worse, a taxi. And, as wonderful and kind
and thoughtful as people can be, it’s hard
to never be alone. I was on the subway
the other day when a man began singing
and talking at a loud volume, trying to
engage people in conversation and yelling
at them when they wouldn’t answer his
incoherent questions. No one on the
subway dared meet his gaze, and kept to
themselves until their stop arrived. The
needlessness of it all — the unnecessary
harassment, the omnipresent possibility
of conflict, the discomfort of everyone
on the train — made me feel tired and
upset, and all of a sudden I wished I was
hugging my mom.
But then there’s the good, and, my
god, New York City can be good. I’ve never
been physically proximate to so many
movie theaters in my life, especially not
movie theaters that regularly screen films
in 35mm or host Q&As with celebrities
afterward. Not to mention, there’s so much
more diversity in the city than anywhere I’ve
lived, more ethnic enclaves and authentic
cuisines and languages spoken. And don’t
even get me started on New York bagels, so
thick and doughy and tasty — I’ll never eat
a stale store-bought bagel again.
Everything in New York City feels
as though it’s on the precipice of something
large and monumental, regardless of
whether it’s a success or a catastrophic
failure. I walk around the streets of my
neighborhood and I’m reminded that Walt
Whitman once resided here, and Truman
Capote, too. Which then forces me to call
into question my entire existence: who am
I, and what am I doing? I came to the
city with aspirations and goals that fell
to the wayside in the face of quotidian
struggles, and I feel the weight of the
city’s collapsed dreams on my shoulders
with every passing day. Family and
friends ask me if I’ll be returning to New
York City after graduation, far more
excited about the prospect than me, and
appear a bit crestfallen when I tell them
I’m unsure. Where else is a writer or artlover
to go?
I have time, I know, but time seems
to be passing faster with each fleeting day,
and I shelve away months of my life without
much to show for them except a deepseated
dread. I want to be great like Capote
or Whitman, but I don’t know if I have
what it takes. Hell, if I can’t even withstand
a few months in New York, how can I be
expected to do anything worthwhile? It
seems like hyperbole, but the city, with its
far-flung extremes, instills that sense of
urgency and necessity within me whether
I want it or not. And, like Minnelli sings,
if I can make it in New York City, I should
be able to make it anywhere. What if I don’t
have what it takes?
I’m always fearful, rarely selfconfident.
Most days, I just feel like a
fuck-up, and it’s hard to convince myself
that I’m anything else. But, then again,
isn’t New York City sort of a safe-haven
for fuck-ups? For people who aimed for
the moon and crash-landed amid the
skyscrapers and subways? I suppose there
are worse places to fail miserably. Perhaps
I’ve just convinced myself to come back
— check in with me in a couple years, and
we’ll see if I’ve made it.
RIGHT: OPEN FISH MARKET IN CHINATOWN. NOVEMBER 2018.

THE FLATIRON BUILDING. NOVEMBER 2018.

WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK. NOVEMBER 2018.

BODEGA IN BROOKLYN HEIGHTS. NOVEMBER 2018.

BROOKLYN HEIGHTS. NOVEMBER 2018.

MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. OCTOBER 2018.

NATHAN'S FAMOUS HOTDOG. OCTOBER 2018.

acknowledgements
Both literally and figuratively, I
would be nowhere without my
mom. When I began to write for
Duke’s newspaper, she diligently read
(most of ) my articles, and sometimes even
offered her own constructive criticism —
mostly that I abuse the em-dash to no
end, which is quite a fair judgement. I
can still remember how quietly horrified
she sounded on the phone when I
announced to her my freshman year that
I was playing with the idea of majoring
in English, and the urgency with which
she replied: “But, you can still go to law
school after that, right?” (She still thinks
I’d be a great lawyer or senator, which I
do not think is a fair — or accurate —
judgement. Me? In front of Congress?
An absolute shit show.)
I think she’s come around to
my hopeful future as a writer, and she’s
supportive to no end, even of my work
that is vulnerable and difficult and,
sometimes, about her. My mom will
always be the most important person
in my life, and I don’t know if I can
ever repay to her the lifetime of hope,
optimism, gentleness, and resilience
that’s she’s given to me. But with my
words and em-dashes, I’ll try.
I’m not sure if I can pay respects to
an entire newspaper, but I owe a great deal
of gratitude to The Chronicle — especially
Recess, the little arts and culture section
that so graciously embraced me during
my first semester at Duke and became my
closest semblance of home on campus.
And Recess, to me, is synonymous with
the people that worked (and continue to
work) so tirelessly to make it the shining
star that it is: my first editor, Dillon
Fernando; my current editor, Christy
Kuesel; my recruits, every single one
of them, who stuck around long after I
begged them to join; and, of course, Will
Atkinson, my creative partner, a brilliant
writer, an even better editor, and an even
better friend. Their relentless dedication
to Recess, their unparalleled talents, and
their enthusiasm make my heart swell
with pure love.
Miscellaneous thanks are also
owed to the creative masterminds behind
the Duke in New York: Arts + Media
program, namely Marianna Torgovnick,
Jeff Storer, and Jane Bradley. Professor
Torgovnick once quipped to me that I
“work on the edge,” and that assessment
was embarrassingly accurate enough to
implore me to break that bad habit of
pushing off my responsibilities until the
last possible moment. Well, not entirely
— they say relapse is a part of recovery —
but I’m on my way to becoming a more
motivated person, and by consequence,
hopefully, a more motivated writer.
My support system, both local —
Lindsay Manack and her beautiful cat
Artie — and global (literally) — Chloe
Starr, Olivia Simpson, Tyler Kopp,
Mitra Norowzi, Jess Lane, Jennifer
Zhou, my sisters Logan Brantley and
Pheiffer Wilder — are also deserving
of the highest praise. I’m grateful for
every phone call made and text message
sent, emotional breakdown endured
and hope shared. I’ve always mused
that my interpersonal relationships are
what make my life worth living, and
all of the aforementioned people are
proof of that. So: Thank you. Thank
you. Thank you!
Nina Wilder was thrust into existence
twenty years ago in Raleigh, North
Carolina — a city quite unlike New
York, but, to her, just as exciting.
She currently lives in Durham, N.C.,
where she attends Duke University
and majors in English. She’ll tell you
that she’d never leave the South, but
New York City has proven to be a
magnetic, albeit exhausting, locale
— perhaps she’ll be back among its
commotion one day, but for now, she’s
happy to eat all the barbeque and
corn bread she can. (New York, please
work on your glaring absence of edible
southern cuisine while she’s gone.)