Of course, the notion of New York being “over” isn’t new; dissatisfied New Yorkers have been calling it quits on the city for decades. “It’s a privilege to decide to give up on a city, especially when so many people don’t get to make that decision,” says writer and urbanism expert Robert Sullivan, adding, “For a lot of people [in New York City], the decision to leave is not a long debate, it’s an eviction notice.” Even before white flight sent many New Yorkers to the suburbs in droves in the 1970s, the narrative persisted that New York was a dangerous place unsuited to white, upwardly mobile family life—or as many have more circuitously expressed it: “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
I do live here, however, and I can attest that the New York story looks different right now. Many of the bars, restaurants, and cultural institutions that draw so many out-of-towners to New York City are hurting, and even the ones that are open for business are operating at reduced capacity: I’ve lived in New York for 14 years total, and not since the days and weeks immediately following 9/11, have I seen the city grieve so openly.
Still, as the isolation of early spring gave way to crowded streets of protestors fighting for Black liberation this summer, New York firmly reestablished itself as the city of the Stonewall riots, Occupy Wall Street, and countless other uprisings that have proved many New Yorkers’ devotion to fighting for justice, often at great personal expense. It’s all too easy to lose sight of that righteous legacy during times of normalcy, but when the seductive leisure class trappings of New York life are suddenly stripped away, what’s left behind proves itself well worth staying for.
Right now, many people are understandably being tempted to attach extra meaning to their decisions to leave or stay in New York City: As some capriciously declare the city “over,” others castigate anyone who would dare leave for more affordable, slower-paced surroundings. Ultimately, though, what we should be striving for is not passing some mythical “real New Yorker” litmus test, but normalizing a level of community care that makes this city livable for all. This might sound like a lofty goal, but it can be worked toward through small but concrete actions: I never feel more like a New Yorker than when I drop off food at a community fridge, or donate to a local mutual aid group, or even line up once a week for a quick COVID-19 nasal swab.
This is New York, I often think to myself as I wedge a few groceries into the community fridge beside the cornucopia of food my neighbors have already donated. More so than any scenic skyscraper vista or wild night out, it’s the sight of New Yorkers quietly helping one another that defines the city for me. I don’t know if I’ll spend the rest of my life here, or uproot myself all over again in a year or two, but the compassion and community responsibility that New York engenders in so many of its residents can never really be “over.” The care that the city’s residents have extended to one another throughout a pandemic and countless protests is the city’s true legacy, and it’s one that I hope New Yorkers—leavers and stayers alike—will carry with us, no matter where our journeys take us.