moving from new jersey

I should just lie at this point; invent a story that starts with my mother giving birth to me here--maybe in Harborview Medical Center downtown, or in the more modern Swedish Medical Center, where Chris's nieces were born.

But that removes my mother from the story, and she gave birth to me in New Jersey, in a cesearan operation after ___ hours of labor in Morristown Medical Center. She moved to Jersey for college, and stayed there longer than she'd ever lived away. Long enough to marry, get pregnant, raise a kid, get divorced, and sell a house.

I've now lived in Washington for seven years, four months, and twenty days -- not quite longer than I've lived anywhere else, but if combined with college, I'm just a couple of years shy. The car that I drove cross-country still has the registration sticker from New Jersey's DMV, peeling slightly at the corner of my windshield. It's valid through 2014, including its one-year extension.

When I first moved here, I wanted to write stories about everyone's stories. No one seemed native to Seattle, so why did they move here? What adventures did they encounter on their journeys out here? I was 22. Everyone's story interested me. 

A girl asked me last week where I was from, and I just wanted to lie. She was young, probably 22, fresh out of college and curious about my story. She'd realized that no one seemed to be from here. I wanted to lie and tell her about Harborview, but I told her the truth. 

"I'm from New Jersey," I said. 

"That's so cool, I'm from Florida!" she said.

"I've been here for about eight years though," I said, not responding to the Florida prompt. At this point, Florida was as obscure a place to me as Jersey.

I read diaries of Seattle's pioneers in my free time. I finished a 300 page book about Chief Seattle. My boyfriend was born here (okay, in the suburbs, but we'll make it work). I can point out three skyscrapers downtown and tell you what restaurant I went before it was built there, or what bar I used to bike past there when I lived downtown, or how those condos used to be the Two Bells and they had a really good deal on Mac N' Cheese.

But there are still signs. The New York Times arrives at my doorstep Sunday morning. I take my eggs with salt, pepper, and ketchup. I really, really miss the beach, and think Washington's coastline is a sad excuse for a shoreline.

I really want to rip that sticker off my car, and I don't want to hear your story.