Seven Ways of Being a Recovering New Jerseyian

I made this second-person creative writing for my EH class, in response to Porochista Khakpour’s “13 Ways of Being an Immigrant.” This piece was a comedic attempt to grapple with my identity as someone from New Jersey, as well as a way to provide some insight into the most ridiculous state in the U.S.

I
The year is 2020, 10 years since you left New Jersey. You’ve done your best to change, moving to a hip city with overpriced housing and arguably even more extortionate coffee, listening to indie rock and wearing leather jackets. You, for the first time ever, have some sort of grasp on the ever intangible status of “being cool.” But deep inside, you know it’s all a ruse. You cannot change the fact that you come from the tanning bed of the U.S.A, the chipped ashtray of North America, and undoubtedly the least cool place to ever exist. You may have left New Jersey, but New Jersey will never, ever leave you.

II
You are not religious. Deep down, you judge or admire people who are, depending on the day. But most of all, you are not Catholic. New Jersey doesn’t care. You catch yourself saying “God bless you” when someone sneezes, and you occasionally cross yourself before taking a test. Sometimes, you pray to God. You don’t understand why, how you could pray to someone you don’t believe in, and you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s all one big ironic act. Almost.

III
You have an inexplicable and undeniable love for Italian-American culture. You’d take a Christmas lasagne over a Christmas ham any day of the week. Italian opera is always playing during dinnertime, a habit that started as a joke, but isn’t anymore. You can sing some of your favorite songs by heart, if poorly. You yell, “Pasta Fagioli” (pronounced fa-zool-i) in an awful Italian accent whenever someone cuts you off in traffic. Part of you hates the Italian stereotype, part of you revels in it, despite only being 18% Italian.

IV
One rainy day, you were stopped at a four-way intersection. The car on the other side was flashing a left turn signal, and you were going straight. As soon as the light turned green, the other car swerved in front of you, cutting you off. As you mutter “f**n Jersey left” under your breath, you realize that only a fellow New Jerseyian would recognize such a disruptive technique. This makes you feel New Jersey special, like a Jersey Shore seagull finding a single perfect hotdog among the vast expanse of sand and broken glass.

V
You swear constantly. Happy times, sad times, surprises, shocks, everyday conversation, it doesn’t matter. It leaks into every sentence you say, whether you like it or not. You say your fondness for swearing comes from your family, but that’s not entirely true. Someway, somehow, you know it comes back to New Jersey. It’s grip on you will never falter; struggling will only smudge it’s spray-on tan.

VI
While you can alter your personality, slang, even accent, your flesh will never lie. No matter what clothes you wear, it does nothing to cover up your hilariously stereotypical New Jerseyian physique. Short and stout, constantly overweight according to the BMI. Your hair is a thing to behold, your hair is a plague. Going three days without a shower makes your hair a fire hazard, with all that grease. You get a 5 o’clock shadow by 12:00 pm. Now that you’re on the West Coast, you almost never see that trademark Italian-American stature, making you the only one. This used to bother you a lot. You’ve grown to like it, though. Nothing is more New Jersey than being a black sheep, and loving yourself for it.

VII
Being from New Jersey is the epitome of a love/hate relationship: one day, the lazy bum will throw a beer bottle at your head, and the next he’s making you the best g*d**cannoli you’ve ever had. The struggle of the New Jerseyian is unknown to those from normal states, like Nebraska, or Pennsylvania or Oregon. You will never, ever get rid of New Jersey: yet that struggle is what makes you unique. You’re from the only state that bare-knuckle brawls your identity on a daily basis, his pawnshop jewelry ridden fingers grinding your face into the absurd muck of ego and machismo.

And sweetheart, ya betta f** believe we wouldn’t have it any otha way.