I am not a New Yorker. I was born in New York but I steadfastly refuse the title. New York is often romanticized as this magical place where young professionals and artists alike are able to realize their dreams while living in cramped apartments with like-minded people.

To be a New Yorker you have to walk fast, hate everyone that gets in your way and know what subway line gets you to your destination fastest. You know that the best bodegas have cats in them and the best pizza is at the small shop down the street. You like lox on your bagels and “baconeggcheesesaltpepperketchup” is one word.

That’s what people think. Many people fall into the trap of acting like a New Yorker in the city. People walk into traffic, give dirty looks to slow walkers and wait in line for the trendiest foods just to feel like they’re authentic. Taylor Swift even wrote a song about how New York has been waiting for you. It hasn't.

Now, the shop down the road from me may be a front for the mob, and the woman who works the register looks like a henchman from a Mission Impossible film, but I dare you to find a better slice of pizza in the tri-state area. It wouldn’t be that hard because the next best place is right across the street.

Everybody wants to be a New Yorker. Everybody wants to have that grit about them. Being able to claim New York as your home means that you have survived just like all of the other New Yorkers have done. You’re from where everyone else wants to be.

But I don’t want to be a New Yorker. I’m a New Jerseyan. I grew up with a lawn and a dog and five delis within two miles of me. I grew up eating pizza and getting upset when I was in Pennsylvania because I couldn’t eat at my favorite bagel shop. The New Jersey Devils and New Jersey Nets were forty-five minutes south of me, as were the New York Giants and Jets. If I really wanted to I could take a train and be at Madison Square Garden. In fact, one of my earliest memories is on the 55^th floor of the World Trade Center’s south tower where my dad’s company was holding their annual Christmas party. I could see the Statue of Liberty from his colleague’s office.

I want to be a New Jerseyan. And I am a New Jerseyan. I can tell you the fastest way to get into the City and I can write an essay about why the train is the best of all your options. I know that the best view of the city is from the Jersey side because I saw it every time I went down the highway. I can drive two hours and be at my best friend’s house on the shore.

My hockey and concert tickets are cheaper too, and I can indulge in some of the best barbecue this side of the Mason-Dixon as I wait for the puck to drop. Always a fan of the underdog, I would much rather cheer on the three-time Stanley cup champions as they rebuild than cheer on a team whose last championship was before I was born. And pay twice the money to do so.

While New York may be the Center of the Universe, I would rather live a little to the right. I can have all the perks of New York without the sound of sirens and bustle disturbing my sleep. I can get my pizza and bagels just as easily and I can support my teams for a fraction of the price. I don’t want to be a New Yorker. I’m already a New Jerseyan.