Smells like home

My name is Neil FitzPatrick and I’m from New Jersey. I know that’s important, because it’s the first thing anyone asked me as a first-year at Columbia. Not “So what’s your take on this Iraq business?” or “How do you feel about peanut M&M’s?” (I fully support them), but “Where are you from?” The weird thing was, the conversation usually ended there. For everyone else—Texans, Oregonians (yes, I looked it up), Koreans—there was always a follow up question: “Oh cool, but why don’t you have an accent?” “Is that the one at the top or is that Washington?” “How do you say ‘penis’ in Korean?” The best I ever got was a blunt “ew” from a mildly intoxicated Horace Mann Alum.

As a second year, the same holds true. My roommate is from Athens. All he has to do is say “Greece” and look mildly foreign, and the conversation takes care of itself. The truth is that being from New Jersey—particularly at Columbia—is just not all that interesting. I am not, to borrow a line, a beautiful and unique snowflake.

But it’s not just that there are a lot of other kids from the Garden State at Columbia. Jersey gets a bad rap. That drunk Upper East Side snob was just being honest. The usual criticisms about my home state sound something like this: it smells, it’s one big garbage dumb, it’s one big factory, it’s one big factory that runs on the garbage from the one big garbage dump, it’s full of guidos (muscle t’s, hair gel, fake tans, Escalades, not necessarily Italian) all the politicians are corrupt, two thirds of the state is highway, there’s nothing to do, it’s full of Jersey girls, we’re all illiterate, etc., etc.

And actually, a lot of that is true. We do have a considerable number of guidos, most Jersey girls do, in fact, come from New Jersey, and we can tell where our fellow citizens live by what exit they are off of one of the state’s two major highways.

Also interesting, the following is a real AP news story from this summer: “An investigation into the sale of black-market kidneys and fake Gucci handbags evolved into a sweeping probe of political corruption in New Jersey, ensnaring more than 40 people Thursday, including three mayors, two state lawmakers and several rabbis.” Yes. Human kidneys. And those weren’t small town mayors, either. The chief executives of Hoboken and Secaucus were among those arrested.

My point here, despite what it may seem, is not to further damage the already-delicate reputation of my homeland. Bon Jovi has done enough. But it’s also not exactly to defend it. I do not intend to go off about real bagels, good pizza, boardwalks, and diners (although all of those things are very, very dear to my heart). Nor am I going to tell you about the suburbs, beaches, and farmland that make up a large portion of the state. I won’t even take the easy way out and just take pot shots at Long Island (but seriously. Talk about God-awful places.) Instead, I’m going to do my best to explain why it’s the organ-trading holy men and greased-up walking cliches that give me, and so many of my fellow residents, deep-seeded Jersey pride.

First of all, let’s turn to the NFL. New York has three football teams (Giants, Jets, Bills, for those playing along at home). New Jersey has none. No complaint there. After all, the entirety of New England has to share one team. But things get a bit weird when one considers that two of those New York teams­—the Jets and the Giants—have their home stadium in New Jersey. Imagine if the Florida Marlins played in Georgia, or the Arizona Cardinals in New Mexico. How long do you think Georgia and New Mexico would wait before petitioning for a name change?

Now consider that both Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty are actually in New Jersey. That’s right. Your great-grandfather who came to the land of opportunity with seven dollars in his pocket and a dream? He landed first in New Jersey.

Of course both of these facts are well known, at least in the tri-state area. Movements to correct them have come and gone. But they still remain the best examples of my larger point: New Jersey is the runt of the pack. Or, if you prefer, Meg from “Family Guy.” It’s unloved, unnoticed, smelly, sort of ugly, and quietly determined to escape itself (okay that last part might be my invention, but you get my point). The constant insults, the lack of credit, and our ever-present flaws all give us our identity. They are the reason we keep turning out Bruce Springsteens and John Stewarts. As the lead singer of an acclaimed Jersey punk band recently pointed out, we actually almost made “Born to Run,” a ballad about escaping New Jersey, the state song. But even Bruce, who has made his mark by writing albums about fleeing home, still loves (and lives in) Jersey. The fact is, we love all the garbage and smells and corruption and jibes because, as cliche as it is, they have only made us stronger. They’ve made us stronger and given us a Napoleon complex. It’s a dangerous combination. So go ahead, keep them coming. And watch your back, Long Island.

The author is a Columbia College sophomore. He is an associate editorial page editor.