Let me tell you a story.
A long time ago, I met a New Yorker who swore up and down that it was illegal to sing “New York, New York” within the boundaries of Manhattan. I thought they were crazy.
I was a starry-eyed young wisp of a thing who could imagine nothing grander than to walk those very streets as my own. To be able to point to a humble bodega and say, “That’s my bodega,” and to be on a first-name basis with the guy inside who’d wave as I walked by.
I would walk past brownstones at twilight, watching the lamps switch on one at a time, casting shadows against the shades, thinking: “I want to eat cheesecake at 3am! I want to stand in Times Square in the middle of the night! I want to wake up in the city that doesn’t sleep!”
Three years of hard work, shuffling around, scary decisions, scraping by, and last week I looked up from my walk home to see my local bodega guy waving to me as I walked by. How did it feel? It felt like I’m king of the hill! Top of the heap!
And let me tell you, standing in my surprisingly spacious kitchen, leaning against the counter eating ice cream out of the container, boy did I feel like a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker. Then I thought of that song:
These little town blues
And if I can make it there
And I have to be honest, I did cry a little. That’s why we can’t sing the song. Rich or poor, young or old, native-born or dream-seekers like me: it makes your NY heart soar and break and swell with pride.
(Especially when it means the Yankees have just won)
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