On What Makes A New Yorker: Advice for Taylor Swift

Oh…TAYLOR. I kind of like you. I really do! I like you even more now that you’ve told The View you’re donating all proceeds from Welcome to New York to our public schools. They really need the dough.

But please…just stop.

There’s plenty about you that impresses me. You write your own songs. You’re as stunning as a supermodel. You seem like a nice girl, too — a real girl’s girl. You seem like you’ve got class. Even with a body that won’t quit, you don’t dress like a hooker and exhibit a consistent streak of good taste. You’re proof that talent and hard work and an affable persona can take you far.

But don’t get it twisted: As far as most New Yorkers are concerned, your appointment to ambassador of our city does not instantly anoint you into authenticity. It just underlines the fact that our beloved New York has eroded into something far more Mall of America than Metropolis; a capital of consumerism where everything’s for sale and anything can be bought. Unfortunately, our jaded, tired, black hearts aren’t for sale. We truly appreciate the fact that you love our city, but it’s hubris of the highest order to think any real New Yorker will buy what you’re selling in this capacity. I mean, you’ve lived here for what — five minutes? I have skin tags that have lived in this city longer than you.

Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, I came to just New York like you did, albeit a foot shorter and a lot poorer. I was young, green, full of vim and vigor, blinking into the neon lights, entranced by the cacophony of sights and sounds, full of determination to lift a metaphorical leg and mark my territory. It’s even way better for you than it ever was for me: You can afford Opening Ceremony. You can slide into your limo and slink out to Roberta’s at 2am and chonk right into a pile of carbs, free of the prying eyes of the paparazzi. You have a lovely home that you actually own and an amazing job that you actually love, instead of a couch you’ve surfed on for the three months and the shitty, remedial office job you had to take to pay way too much money for it.

You see, you can throw all the money in the world at us, but true New Yorker status still has to be earned. I’ve been here for over 17 years not counting an initial stint in college and am still considered an interloper in many circles. A zillion dollar West Village tax write-off with views, a garage, elevator and doorman does not make you a New Yorker. Hanging out in Brooklyn with Lena Dunham does not make you a New Yorker.

When we think of New York, we think of Lou Reed. We think of Joan Rivers. We think of Jocelyn Wildenstein. We think of Robert Deniro. We think of Al Sharpton. We think of Bell Environmental. We think of Lady Gaga. We even think of Lena Dunham. In fact, we totally think of Lena Dunham.

Like the mafia, there’s no easy way in or out. You have to do a lot of time here to earn your stripes, girl. And you have to actually walk the streets, you can’t just take it all in from the back of a chauffered Escalade.

What makes a New Yorker?

• Trudging through snowstorms and hurricanes makes you a New Yorker.
• Fearing Ebola, SARS, MERS, and misuggas while you’re actively sneezed on in the subway each and every day makes you a New Yorker.
• Cursing about the inconvenience of the thousandth film shoot on your block or alternate side of the street parking makes you a New Yorker.
• Deeply inhaling the urine-scented stench of a subway platform in August makes you an New Yorker.
• Catching the mouse that mocks you by leaving a trail of shit on your stove makes you a New Yorker.
• Feeling like you’re going to die and be reincarnated before the next F train comes makes you a New Yorker.
• Waiting two hours for a doctor’s appointment and six in an emergency room waiting area makes you a New Yorker.
• Taking a leak in a club bathroom without benefit of toilet paper while dodging errant piss puddles around the bowl makes you a New Yorker.
• Watching someone actually defecate on the street makes you a New Yorker.
• Screaming at Time Warner Cable makes you a New Yorker. Wait, that just makes you human.
• Coping with the Darwinian bullshit that is School Choice makes you a New Yorker.
• Schelpping your groceries 15 blocks and up three flights of stairs makes you a New Yorker.

When was the last time you did any of those things? Or are you reading this from your sky high perch in Nashville or LA, waiting it out until the Ebola scare passes you over?

Everyone knows you aren’t a true New Yorker until a perfect stranger checks you into place. Hopefully, this has brought you a step closer. You’re welcome.

Love and a string of random emoticons,

Viv