There’s a ferret in a basket where I’m currently keeping all my bras and underwear. It’s burrowing deep into each haphazardly tossed fold of black cotton and lace—sniffing, clawing. I cautiously reach my hands around its furry, noodle-like body and lift its freakish little paws off my undies.
“Hey, uh, here’s your ferret,” I say with an awkward chillness and forced smile, pushing myself to ignore the possibility that my panties are now hosts to the plague. I hand the squirmy creature to its owner, my 23-year-old roommate—a musician and craftsman who eats scrambled eggs with burger buns and talks like Mick Jagger doing his best Muddy Waters impersonation. He along with my other roommate—an emo 22-year-old who sings like an angel, unironically loves Jack Johnson and the Velvet Underground in equal measure but thinks Jarvis Cocker is a yuppie (My heart! No!)—both graciously helped me carry 150 pounds of luggage up a four-floor Brooklyn walk-up. They assisted in building a plastic clothes rack that broke within a day, brought me cold medicine and every Sunday we have a little family dinner, cooked by me, around a rickety coffee table.
This is the start of my New York City story. Everyone who moves to this city has one, and now I do too. And with this I bittersweetly and with hot, hot tears stinging my eyes announce that I “Goz” no more. For six years I’ve shared my weirdo adventures, heartaches, joys, anger and ever-flowing river of feminist rants in this column, but the time has come for me to end it.
Writing “There She Goz” (a play on my last name, the song “There She Goes” by The La’s and the fact that I tend to go off) hasn’t always been easy, and I haven’t loved every minute of it. In fact, I often hated it. But this small section of paper that was given to me by my former editors, Dave Rolland and Kelly Davis, has meant more to me than most anything on Earth. I was 28 and declared, “I am not Carrie Bradshaw.” Now here I am, a writer in the big city wearing non-sensible shoes.
Even so, I felt the weight of responsibility to use this small corner of paper to speak truth to power, especially as a woman of color in an industry where there are few. I promised to unflinchingly share my experiences. My hope was that this column would foster understanding and tolerance, and perhaps give the women who read it a reflection of themselves and send the men who read it into hiding. Just kidding. Sort of.
In the years I grew up with “Goz,” readers have been incredibly warm and giving with their support. Every time someone sent a letter or stopped me on the street to say something I wrote made them feel seen or opened their eyes to the world even just a little bit, whether for its beauty or its injustices, I knew this space had purpose and I did too. And every nasty word spit my way to denigrate or debase my existence for wanting to erode privilege, racism and misogyny, well, that fueled my purpose as well. Jokes on you, motherfuckers. You only made this bitch stronger.
About a year ago, I left San Diego for Los Angeles to pursue bigger career opportunities. Like many before me, I began to run into a series of professional walls and had to make a tough decision. I held out my entire life because I want to make my city better for people like me—young, driven creatives who want to do big things and see the immense talent that lives here thrive. As we all know, the one-sided rivalry between San Diego and L.A. is very real, so departing for those vast fields of traffic felt like abandonment and betrayal. People will often remind you of that, too, as though you were the dad that went off for cigarettes one day and never came back.
My ambition won out as I faced the realization that staying in San Diego would mean financial struggle, giving up on some dreams, and becoming complacent because of the warmth and comfort home provides. Even so, I remained invested in my city, coming back every two weeks and sharing our stories on a bigger platform. In my 14 years in journalism, I’ve juggled multiple jobs, moved no less than 12 times, faced illness, divorce, death, job loss, lack of healthcare and, for a while, supported myself on $250 a week, food stamps and a bicycle. I did whatever I had to do, and I always pushed myself to think about the next step, the big goals—to honor the hard work and sacrifices my parents made when they came to this country—and build on them.
And now I live with a ferret.
I couldn’t be more excited and my family couldn’t be any prouder. I wish my dad could’ve seen it.
As of about a month ago, I’m the Senior Culture Editor at VICE, leaving L.A. for New York City. Here I’m building a culture section that stands by the tenets I hold true as a journalist and as a woman of color, one who wants to see this industry become more inclusive, diverse and intentional. I’ve promised myself to live by this vital doctrine and to do the work required for the sake of necessary systemic change. I’m not sure where I’m going after this, where my career will take me, where life will take me or if I’ll actually make an impact, but tonight, as I type these final words in this formidable corner of paper, I’m grateful.