Illustration: Betsy Everitt
I sat waiting for my New Jersey driver’s license for hours, anxiously wondering if I had filled out all of the proper forms. After waiting in multiple lines and sitting in multiple chairs, I traded in my Pennsylvania driver’s license, and it was official—I was a New Jersey resident.
I had called Pennsylvania home for 23 years. I can trace my youth along the landscapes of upper Appalachia, through forests, creek beds and blueberry fields. After spending time traveling and living elsewhere, I settled into Morris County in 2022, just as autumn began to work its way into the world.
When I first moved to New Jersey, I didn’t feel the same connection I’d had to Pennsylvania. I knew nothing about the Pinelands, the Shore, the celebrities. I didn’t understand the feud about Taylor ham versus pork roll, the debate over central Jersey’s existence (now settled by Governor Phil Murphy!), the gravity of just how long it took for the American Dream mall to be completed.
New Jersey wasn’t mine in the same way that Pennsylvania had been mine. In the first few months living here, whenever people asked where I was from, I’d instinctively say Pennsylvania. This was partially out of habit, but also because I didn’t have ties to New Jersey just yet. I didn’t know how to put down roots because mine had always been planted. Eventually, I set about settling in.
This looked a lot like cycling around Lake Parsippany as the mornings turned cooler and cooler. Slowly, I began to discover the different hues of New Jersey.
I read and finished books while riding NJ Transit. I wandered through shops in Montclair and settled into a seat at the Clairidge to watch a new film. In early spring, I spent a chilly day on a quiet stretch of West End Beach, tiptoeing closer to the receding Atlantic until it rushed back and flooded my shoes with icy water. I met up with friends at diners and sushi restaurants. We drove through Hackensack, stopped at corner stores, and piled into a booth for Korean barbecue.
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Suddenly, New Jersey transformed around me, and I transformed with it. I knew how to navigate the roads and highways without directions. The deli owner recognized me when I stopped in for a bagel. I had a list of my favorite restaurants, and I understood the inside jokes.
I owe so much of this to my partner and his family, who took care to invite me into their traditions and routines. Their annual visit to Wightman Farms in Morristown became our annual visit. My celebrations became their celebrations. We ate bowls of ramen at Mitsuwa in Edgewater, ordered churrascos from Los Andes Bakery on Bergenline Avenue and attended the annual Greek Festival in Randolph. We watched fireworks, explored hiking trails and observed holidays.
Through this family that became my family, I have developed a deep sense of pride for New Jersey and its people. As I enter my second year in New Jersey, I’m looking forward to discovering new traditions and putting down more roots.
Not long ago, while traveling out of state, I struck up a conversation with a stranger who asked me where I was from. This time, I knew exactly what to say. I’m from New Jersey.
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