Thursday, September 5th just passed. It was the first day, after summer break, for all public schools in New York City. The activity this brought to my neighborhood was something I wasn’t expecting. The difference between the noise levels on my street from the Wednesday preceding the first day of school to the Thursday it did begin was drastic. 

            My block went from silent to raucous in a matter of hours.

            Never before had I lived in a building on the same street as a school. 

            But, I do now.

         Man, do I ever?

             Like I’d said before, all the places I’d lived before were meant to appeal, solely, to an older segment of society. In the neighborhoods I used to live, there were no visible markers to distinguish one day from another, much less years. There were no graduations, or ceremonies to delineate one year from the next. 

            No old person wants to be reminded that another year had passed. 

            They don’t appreciate that, and neither do I, now.

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            But the first day of school brought me back to my own grade-school years. Imagining those children on their first days as they entered hallways designated for older students, all the while being extremely intimidated by what the teachers would be expecting of them in their new grades. It was on this first day when I thought everyone older must be smarter and more experienced than I was.

The older girls have already heard the same lectures I’m hearing now. 
God, they’re so worldly-wise!

            But for me now, instead of entering new classrooms, I am mounting new stages from which I perform stand-up comedy and I attend new SoulCycle classes to do spinning for exercise. I continue to sit at my desk and write at my laptop, but the sound I hear outside is different from the sound I would hear just a week ago. 

            That’s because last week I heard nothing.

            Sounds of rambunctious school children are what I hear now. Lot’s of “Noooo!!! Yessss!!! Yaaaayyy!!” and laughter.  These are kids in school.

            This is a new year. 

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In addition, for me the end of summer/early fall tradition while living in New York City is watching the U.S. Tennis Open from Flushing Meadows, NY, usually scheduled from the last week of August until the second week of September. 

            The men’s final was being played when I wrote these paragraphs.

            In the absence of having children, I find that the U.S. Open is really how I know that summer is over and fall is here. Most Americans attribute Labor Day with the start of fall. I choose to take a much more symbolic stance. When the year’s last tennis Grand Slam is played, I admit that fall has arrived. With each loud groan Nadal made as he swung his racquet against the tennis ball, I would know the end was near. As hard as Medvedev fought that final, it seemed to be Nadal’s tournament to win. The end of the tournament, the end of the tennis season, and the end of the summer all culminated in one night. The temperature had already dropped. The chill of fall was in the air.

            The year officially begins.