By Bridge or Tunnel: The Transplant Experience in New York City

My friend's fiance recently moved into the vacant bedroom in the Harlem apartment I share with my sister. I've lived in Manhattan a year. My sister is rounding three years. Currently, we share the responsibility of expediting our Pennsylvania-bred roommate through her acclimation to the city.

For the most part, I enjoy imparting what modicum of knowledge I can on my wet-behind-the-ears roommate--as a recent transplant, hashing out advice makes me feel a little more like a native. But the other day, following a city outing, my frustrated roommate lamented, "I feel like it's going to take me months to become a New Yorker."

I consider myself a patient person, but it's difficult for me to absorb this particular brand of comment without visibly cringing. I blame Leonor.

Leonor is a college friend who served as my own city mentor during undergraduate visits to New York. More importantly, Leonor is a fiercely loyal Manhattanite who has lived in the same apartment on West 105^th Street her entire life and whose primary adolescent influence was an uncle who, as she likes to tell people, believes you need a passport to visit boroughs outside Manhattan. She was a harsh taskmaster, un-permissive of pretension and quick to stamp out the slightest affectation.

Whenever a fellow transplant prematurely refers to him or herself as a New Yorker, I envision Leonor's disapproving glare even before I can muster my own revulsion. I realize that the desire to belong is only human and readily concede that inclusion always necessitates a degree of exclusion, but something about New York naturalization engenders a distinct form of anxiety.

Transplants hope to be considered New Yorkers like mediocre grade school basketball players hope to become Michael Jordan. We are delicate, asthmatic--unsure of our jump shot and terrified of free throws. We imagine all attention on our slightest foible and feel our greatest triumphs pass without congratulation.