I changed my number and moved to a new city

on deleting contacts, seeking reinvention and coming home

I always assumed there would be an instant gratification in changing my number and moving to a new city.

Granted, my first time seeing my generation’s pop icons Britney Spears and Christina Aguillera were in their respective movies Crossroads and Burlesque, in which they each dump their small towns in hopes making it in the big city. With that, my own experience counted eleven moves by the time I reached high school. So in a way, despite being world’s away from the American dreamers, I bought into their association of the road as a symbol of freedom.

Crossroads (2002)

Burlesque (2010)

Perhaps I hoped to emulate the instant gratification Serena Van Der Woodsen felt when dumping her phone in a New York trash can and walking away, as if to signify her outgrowing her environment. Despite no longer being a teenager, and therefore not fitting the symbolism of being at a crossroad state, of being at a crucial stage where I might go one way or another, I have always felt that the act of moving to a new city offers a certain opportunity of reinvention. Without anyone to hold you accountable on past personality traits, who’s to say who you are, or meant to be?

The fantasy was quick to die down once I found that changing my number would include updating my entire contact list of the change. Something I meticulously avoided by spending several minutes delicately going through my contacts and removing my Spanish teacher, old flatmates and exes, including the one I broke up with seven years ago who only recently slid into my WhatsApp messages. Pretty sure whatever gratification I was meant to feel unravelled itself right then and there.

I have never considered myself a hoarder, especially in the midst of a move. I usually get so overwhelmed with packing that I gaslight myself into thinking that no possession is necessary. This time, my move included throwing out my vacuum cleaner and favourite perfume for lack of space in my suitcase. So why is it that every number I have ever saved remains in my contact list? Am I more sentimental than I give myself credit for?

Perhaps I was never meant for a popstar coming-of-age story. I did always romanticise Chihiro’s car trip, lounging amongst her flowers and cards in the bag seat, more than any other young girl approaching a crossroad. A story not of disconnect with one’s own, but rather of reconnect. Of growing up to grow closer, and not apart.

Spirited Away (2001)

I must admit that my formative years included moving all over and beaming at family reunions when each uncle and aunt had trouble catching up to the last destination. It seemed that each time I was meant to return home I quickened my pace, never quite knowing what I was trying to catch up with. Perhaps the idea of reinvention was taken too far, as if I intended to reinvent myself not to strangers but to family.

As I now move back in with family, there’s a certain soft message brought into the Japanese crossroad that appeals more to me this time around. I no longer wish to be hard to know, hard to catch up with. I wish to be understood.

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