Turd T-Shirt Thursday: You Sure That’s Where You’re From?

Picture it: Summer of 2007; fresh out of college and now living the free life as an adult. While on a date in Lower Manhattan’s Chinatown with my malignant partner, pretending to be a tourist in your home state is fun; to a point. Walking at the pace of a snail in packed sidewalks. Blended chatter by the dozens. Phones out for pictures and GPS directions to get the fuck out of there faster. If you can’t relate as a New Yorker, you sure that’s where you’re from?

What’s the first thing you think of when you hear someone is from New York City?

Do you think that they’re inherently authoritarian? Have an attitude problem? Impatient and arrogant? Filthy rich?

I have a few of those qualities, but it was just the way I was raised. I could be from anywhere and probably still be that way. Toughness is a persona you have to adapt to know when danger could be around the corner, ready to strike when you least expect it. While blindingly inebriated 2 am rides on the Metropolitan Transit Authority system was a test I passed many times to prove my blood is New York blood. Those demonstrations of idiocy were beyond reckless, but I’m still here.

It was a few months into our centuries-long courting; my tanned skin to his pale exterior and lack of asking brought them to believe that I may not have been an actual New Yorker. The thought never entered my mind even to want to buy something so out of character. I’d be more inclined to buy a shirt that read, “Human?” than the name of one of the first 13 states that Mother England washed her hands off of.

Another note I took into account was that he was a big John Lenon fan. I’m not, that’s for sure. He wasn’t born here, but he did die here. Not looking for our fates to end the same, but I know where I’m from, and I can’t remember to forget it.