How can a D.C. native tell if someone is a transplant?

You may have had that government job for a few years now; you may have been to all the museums; you may have even heard a band or two. But the truth is that being a transplant comes with tells you may not even realize and couldn’t get rid of with decades of dedication.

First of all, when I asked where you were from you said, “Here. I’m from Washington.” I have never heard a D.C. native call this place by her government name. Then, you asked me, “Who is Moe?” I told you it was the grandson of “Joe” and the cousin of “Bob” and you asked me, “Who?” again.

You almost had me fooled though! Until you started calling everything by its new name. Telling me to meet you at NoMa when you’re referring to New York Avenue is crazy. And I love me some Marion Barry Avenue, but it sounded like you ain’t even remember Good Hope. I said meet me by the Shrimp Boat and you thought it was down by the Wharf.

As somebody who knows WMATA like the back of his hand, taking the Metro with you was middle school talent show levels of embarrassing. You stood to the left on EVERY escalator. We got on the train, and you just stood in front of the doors. You said, “the Silver line has always been my favorite line,” and we’re still getting to know Silver!

We’re still wrapping our heads around the new stations and route numbers. I don’t know about the P90X, the D4L or the H2O, but whatever bus goes down H St is still the X2 and whatever bus go up Georgia Avenue is still the 70.

When I realized we would have to Uber around because you’re clearly from out of town, we rode past Blue Plains and you kept your window down. When “Overnight Scenario” played on the radio, your first response was “I wanna go to the pancake house.”

I respect wherever you’re from, but certain things make it clear it’s not here. I’ve seen you wear a million pairs of jeans but I’ve never seen you cuff your pants. I bought some oils on the train and you said you would never buy cologne from somebody random. We walked past the old MetroPCS by Howard and you asked me why they were playing music so loud. I asked you to play something with a bounce beat, and you played techno.

Too many times we went to the carryout and you only got Chinese food. Too many times you invited me to an event and didn’t tell me until the day of it was in Waldorf. Too many times I said, “kill” and you said, “who died?”

You ain’t never been to the Turkey Bowl on Thanksgiving in 20 degree weather. You never got told to walk in a zig-zag when the sniper was active. You don’t know the cowboys that ride horses through the Southside. Your first job wasn’t with SYEP.

I can always spot my people from the way we talk with direction. We’re going “out Murrland” or I’ma see you “down Gallery.” We can be in Northwest and still not be trying to go “all the way Uptown.” My people still have memories of Marvin, Ibiza, and Stadium.

You never seen Kokamoe on the bus or Hollywood in the club or Face at the open mic. You never seen John Wall in Rosebar or his first dougie. RGIII’s first touchdown. The Mystics, Nationals, and Capitals' championships. When the city got a sport to believe in again. You never rocked Solbiato, Helly Hansen, Bloodline, The Museum, EAT or Spread The Love.

You had to be there for bus coins and paper transfers. You had to be there when we used farecards instead of SmarTrips. You had to be there for how bad Relisha Rudd’s disappearance messed the city up; how bad Deon Kay’s fatal shooting messed the city up; how crack, fentanyl, and K2 made everybody lose somebody even if they never died; how we bled together so we had to heal together.

You may love D.C., but this pride has come from generations of love and loss. This accent was formed from years of bids and joaning. These views come from decades of political neglect. It comes from a shared understanding that we are all we got.