Part of what makes a writer is an attachment to inanimate objects, mental images, and concepts of no importance. These are the outlets my imagination takes to sometimes. It likes to latch onto things and paint them with characteristics they may not inertly have. Numbers and letters have personalities for me. Silverware and certainly clothing. The different states are another such elusive entity that have personality for me and on that subject, I'm sure glad to live in The Empire State.
My feeling isn't really anything like pride or nationalism because I don't take any personal identity or meaning from living here or there. But it is one of those few states where I think people identify themselves by their state first and nation second. Certainly a New York City resident abroad would answer "I'm a New Yorker" before they said "I'm American." Perhaps it stems from a sense of self-sufficiency, real or imagined, that exists there. Perhaps it's because New York is one of those states that will still be around after the union collapses, along with California and Texas. It is, after all, The Empire State. Or perhaps is just the odd legends the old Dutch infused into the landscape that hold us hostage.
Whatever the reason, I've always felt at home within it's borders. I've always believed my imagination has room to roam and is welcome here. It's kind of crazy, but I suppose that's part of being a writer too. This past weekend, I was on the bus from Boston back to Albany and when I crossed state lines, I literally felt joy. But of course, that other state has always felt like unfamiliar ground, much like Delaware. There's just a lot of story left in the soil here and today I'm feeling ready to farm it.