I’ve had this conversation many times:

“Where you from?”

“New Orleans. I live here.”

“Yeah but where are you from?”

“I stay in Mid-City.”

“Yeah but where did you grow up?”

Even before I open my mouth, people can tell.

In some ways, I will always be an outsider, a foreigner, a stranger, a transplant, a latecomer. And honestly, I’m fine with that. I know who I am.

When, exactly, did I become a New Orleanian? It’s a question I’ve pondered from time to time, and recently I’ve been given pause to ponder it again.

Was it when I visited the brand-new Superdome as a little boy and stood in awe of the massive air conditioning units? No, I was just a tourist.

Was it when I roadtripped here as a crazy college kid and spent a night carousing with derelicts on the river? No, obviously not.

Was it when I took a job here and started reading every book on New Orleans I could find in the local (Indiana) library? Not yet, not quite.

Was it when we left the home we loved so much and moved here — and immediately felt at home? Was it when we opened an account at Hibernia Bank? Was it when we got our library cards?

Was it when my wife took a job teaching in the public schools? We started to learn that life in the Big Easy was anything but.

Was it when we bought a home here in Mid-City? We closed the deal in the narrow window between Hurricane Isidore and Hurricane Lili.

Was it when we evacuated for Hurricane Katrina — or when we came back?

Was it when we rebuilt our house? It sat in five feet of water for a couple weeks. The renovation took almost three years.

Was it when I participated in those endless rounds of planning meetings?

Was it when my wife suffered a painful miscarriage? It may seem odd, but I often think of that moment when I ponder our connection to this place. It was surely one of the worst days we’ve ever had. And yet somehow the pain bound us to here more firmly than ever.

Was it when a friend of mine was murdered in her own house? Was it when I spoke to a crowd of thousands in front of City Hall, serving as a conduit for our mutual grief and rage?

Was it when I devoted eight years of community organizing to secure the construction of the Lafitte Greenway?

Was it when my daughter was born here?

Was it when we enrolled her in a local school?

Was it when I was recognized for ten years of service by my employer? Was it at fifteen years? I’ll be marking twenty years on the job soon.

I’ve been living here in New Orleans for 19 years now.

Maybe it was just a matter of time.

But you know what I don’t like? What I can’t stand? What really gets under my skin and sticks in my craw and rubs me the wrong way?

It’s when people dismiss me as “only” a transplant. We didn’t come back after the floods of 2005 and rebuild our shattered lives together to be divided like that. Yes, I’m a transplant. There’s no shame in that.

If there’s one thing that’s abundantly obvious to me, it’s that I am a New Orleanian. We are New Orleanians. My whole family. I don’t know when it happened, exactly, but it did happen. It’s in full effect now.

That’s right: I’m both a transplant and a local. I’m a non-native New Orleanian.

What’s more, if you are reading this, there’s a damn good chance that you are a New Orleanian as well. You may have ancestors going back here 300 years, or maybe you just arrived, but if you are paying attention to this hyper-local news site, then you probably care about the city on a deeper level.

Your heart is here. And isn’t that what makes a person a New Orleanian? I think so.