By Jason Keidel
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Men love to ask each other meaningless questions. Hulk vs. Thor? ’84 Niners vs. ’85 Bears? Ginger vs. Mary Ann?
One such question, which has no bearing on anything other than the abstract, was posed to me: Do I consider myself an American or a New Yorker?
Perhaps it’s not very patriotic, but I am a New Yorker before anything. Maybe you must be from here, born & bred, one block swathed in money and marble, the next block dark and dank and dangerous.
There is – or there was – a rhythm to Gotham, a hum under our feet when we walked the streets, the ground murmuring with commerce and commuters, the trains running like veins under the city’s skin. The myriad accents, from the bold Brooklyn consonants to the more proper, elitist diction of my island.
New York is so resilient we can survive fires and murders and terrorists. Even trees grow through fences. Not around, but through, swallowing metal on its way to the sky.