Concrete Jungle

That moment when wisdom shakes hands with obliviousness.

How can you live in the same city and not know anything about it all your life?

I am the real-life Kimmy Schmidt, and while I didn't live underground in the literal sense for 26 years, metaphorically, I did. 

I want to tell you a short story. 

Once upon a time, there was a woman. Now, while this woman had a husband, a home to keep & children to mind, she couldn't help but wonder what the concrete city filled with skyscrapers and business suits had to offer. The call of the ‘clackity clack’ made by heels on the streets of the downtown called to her. However, her dream to be apart of the ‘clackity clack’ she kept internal, for as soon as she vocalized it, the walls of her home became battered with holes. 

She works hard. She wifes and mothers, directs a Dayhome, and authors a blog. With her blog gaining international fame, people begin to pay heed to her 29-year-old self, story, and innocence of a 12-year-old girl. She does not know the who of who or the whats of what, nor does she know more than a few street names. Uneducated to a single fucking clue of how the wheels of the concrete jungle spin, it turned towards her and quickly. 

Carrying the excitement of a child, every day brings the opportunity for something new to learn, discover and explore. During this round of ‘childhood,’ she gets to remember her first steps, tastes, smells, and feelings. 

One evening, a friend asks her to meet at a local park. Making friends in this foreign land was daunting. All she knew was a barbed-wire fence compound, cut off and hidden in plain sight, but she had to try. She vowed to herself she would. 

She had heard of this park before and thought she might have been there once, but she couldn't be sure. She did not know its location, so she trusted GPS to get her there.

A freshly purchased floral romper arrived on her doorstep just a few moments before she was to leave, but as a fashion girly on a wardrobe identity overhaul, she had to try it on before she left. Dear reader, she wore it to the park and felt cute. She was feeling adorable; she texted her friend on her way there, stating how cute she was feeling. 

On route, she listened blaringly, on repeat, to ‘Start of Something New’ by Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens. The start of exactly what she was absent from remained an enigma… for an hour longer. 

Her friend had arrived and was waiting for her. Her curiosity and juxtaposition of her wisdom beyond her years and naivety intrigued them.   

Side by side, they walked the loose rock path. Her hands were sweaty and fidgeting. With her friend reassuring her of the cuteness of her romper, her nerves skyrocketed, confirming her anxious brain that she was sure to lose her footing and fall off the unbalanced path and into the river. A fall did not occur and they continued their walk to their final destination; the bank of the river.

The view before them was that of a close-up of the concrete jungle. Sitting, the bustling downtown streets were distinct as a shocked silence overcame her. Staring directly into the heart of her dream and the reason for holes in her home walls, her friend began to tell their stories of the city. As she stared, hours passed as pivotal pillar stories filled her mind that built this metropolis calling to her.  

At this moment, the wisdom of the city shook hands with the oblivious. 

At this moment, the wisdom of the city shook hands with me. 

Dear reader, I am the woman in this short story. The park? Emily Murphy. The city? Edmonton, AB. The friend? I call them K. 

Sitting, listening to K, I asked Edmonton, “Who are you, and what do you offer?” 

Little did I know that almost three years to the day later, with holes patched, I’d be living that dream. Walking to the beat of and with the ‘clackity clacks’ of heels in the heart of this concrete jungle as the Executive Assistant to one of this city’s most beloved journalists, now a PR consultant, shaking hands with NDP leadership candidates, one of who, in 2027 may become the Premier of this place I call home.