Both my parents were born and raised on Long Island, New York. My dad comes from a long lineage of New Yorkers, and my mom's parents immigrated there from the Netherlands in the '60s. All our relatives still live there, and in our house when we refer to New York we mean the 19 close relatives and the countless others that all are scattered across the island. New York has been a landing place and home for my family for my whole life and my parents, and every year over winter break I look forward to seeing the familiar Empire State: a face freckled with old trees and wrinkled with winding roads.
I've lived in three states, but no matter where we are, every winter and summer we migrate to the island on the East Coast to spend a week and see our family. The 17-hour drive makes it feel like once we have arrived, we are in a new, hilly and wooded country distinct from our own flat, cornfields. Illinois and Indiana pass by fast as we begin our arsenal of downloaded Netflix shows and car games. Ohio blends into the endless but beautiful Pennsylvania. And finally, we reach New Jersey and then New York. The ritual of the long drive makes the relief of reaching the destination even better.
I know we have entered New York when the water and the culture changes. My mom insists your water is softer and slips into her old accent as she makes her argument. Language is different; "babe" is properly pronounced by the locals as "beb" in a staccato beat and thrown around between laughs and as a term of endearment. Pizza is hardly recognizable when compared to the deep dish of Chicago. Bagels and sandwiches come from a deli, never a chain or fast food restaurant. A diner isn't just a myth, and one time I forgot what potato salad was and the waitress shook her head and brought me some on the house like she was saving a lost soul.
Every year when my classmates ask where I am going over break and I respond with New York, they immediately ask if I will see the big Christmas tree or Times Square. But New York and I know each other well. I don't know the neighborhoods of the city, but I do know the smoothness of my grandparents' tablecloth and the smell of the coffee and newspaper when I come down for breakfast, cereal and fruit put out. I know the ring of their grandfather clock and how the sun comes through the stained glass. My cousin once asked why there were rainbows on the ground when light came through the window on the door, and I fumbled together a weak answer because it amazed me, too.
But what New York has that none of the other 49 states have is my family. As we drive through the Midwest, we make diagrams to review who is related to who and how. When we drive back, we talk about how all our younger cousins have changed while we were gone. And the 17 hours back remind us of the distance between us, and we start to talk about finding a way back.
