The question has been asked ever since the first wet-behind-the-ears whelp fresh from Ireland stumbled off a boat at New York Harbor, dying from scurvy: When does someone become a real New Yorker?
Thought Catalog writer Jackie Berg has a theory: "It happens when your outstretched hand on the promenade can trace the entire skyline with memories. Underneath your pointer is that street where you felt your heart shatter, but only because thousands of hearts trudged onto shore from that street and into tenements to build the life you complain about. You connect the dots."
No, it's after ten years in New York. Everyone knows that. Jesus fuck.