New York is a city of immigrants and misfits, a town whose stories were invariably born somewhere else and are told through a Babel of tongues. Yes, New York is the ultimate melting pot. But that doesn’t mean you can say you are a New Yorker.
I refer, in particular, to two species of faux New Yorkers. The first is understandable: you’re from a front-lawned suburb a train or car-ride away. You support N.Y. sports teams and maybe even have the accent to prove it. Tough—you’re still not from the city.
The second species deserves more of a slap on the wrist: You’re from somewhere else in the U.S. and are living your personal yuppie/boho dream in a TriBeCa loft or Bushwick garret. You roll your eyes at tourists and relish being “in the know.” You try to mimic a Sex in the City lifestyle or its bro-ish male equivalent but would never admit to it. You claim New York as your home but know nothing about neighborhoods that don’t have bacon-infused bourbon bars. Worst of all, you have no intention of permanently settling in New York and, when you have moved on to some easier, lesser city you will look back on your life in the Big Apple as a “moment” or a “phase.” Guess what? You never were a New Yorker.