16) real recognizing real

April Awakening: Day Sixteen 🌤️☀️🌘

I haven’t really spoken too much about New York City this month. That’s because it’s simply an unpleasant place to be right now. Not like it hasn’t been lately, but it seems we’re really ramping up the ridiculousness in recent weeks. We’ve got a sham hush money trial going on, that pretty much counts for election interference at this point, where the porn star in question actually owed the defendant money. We’ve got taxpayer-funded pre-paid credit cards for illegal migrants and nothing for New Yorkers hurting from the progressive policies. We’ve got infiltration at every level of government from a bunch of “transplants” who think they know what’s best for New York after living here for only two years.

And yet. And yet. Somewhere deep down I know the tide is changing. Because real New Yorkers recognize other real New Yorkers, and there’s far more of us than there are of them. I have to believe that, or else I’ll just break down and cry.

Sitting outside used to be one of my favorite activities. And based on my monthly challenge, I’m forcing myself to do the same. I’ve spoken of this a million times, but it’s just not the same. I barely recognize my own neighborhood anymore. The other day I was extra observant: Young men on bicycles on the sidewalks speaking in a covert language I cannot understand. Unruly kids playing in nearby fountains or grown women cleaning themselves off. They’re not my people. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know why they’re here. And I don’t know why their needs take precedent over mine.

Bleeding hearts will try and guilt you by asking how do you know they’re not New Yorkers. And I know because I am one. I know who was here from the start, and who should not be here at the end.

You know who’s a real New Yorker? The man who saw I was writing on my laptop and warned me it was beginning to drizzle. The woman who whipped a tit out to feed her baby while waiting for her other child to be dropped off. The crazy homeless guy screaming at an Uber driver who was blasting music and doing pushups at 3:00AM. My people. Not these others who’ve been foisted upon us and we’re regrettably paying for.

It’s quite apt I chose to write about this today, considering nearly a thousand illegal migrants, nearly all military-aged men, gathered in front of City Hall after allegedly being promised green cards. They were there for a City Hall meeting about “the experience” of black migrants. A disgraceful, political dog and pony show that showcased just how massive this crisis has gotten.

I’ll tell you what else is real. This crowd I’m standing in right now. I’m in Harlem, a place I don’t normally tread. But I’m surrounded by New Yorkers. I suppose they’re all here to greet President Trump too. Maybe not all of them. But although I’m out of my comfort zone and far from my neighborhood, I’m certainly in New York. I’m in a place that needs just as much care as leadership gives the non-New Yorkers. I’m here keeping my bag tight under my arm. Because unlike those guys who left their helmets unattended on the table next to mine, real New Yorkers keep our things much tighter to the vest than that.

I hope the energy shift is real this time. We can’t afford to lose any of this. Realest possible talk.