It happened again. And it will keep happening. Probably forever. It casually came up in conversation with friends that I was born in Michigan and had only moved to Georgia at the age of 13. Despite my protestations that I had graduated high school in Gwinnett County, matriculated at our state’s flagship university, and spent my entire adult life residing within the City of Atlanta, friends of a more pure Georgia vintage were quick to bring out the dreaded “Y” word: Yankee.

If I am unable to convince friends of my Georgia bona fides, then the much more difficult task of getting them to consider me real Atlanta seems impossible. Conversations, mostly on Twitter, about who is and isn’t Atlanta bubble up with an irregular frequency. The debate reached perhaps its most fevered pitch with the release of a music video and accompanying Tweet by Atlanta rapper Omerettà The Great for her song “Sorry NOT Sorry.” On the track she lays down a series of rules that dictate whether one can consider themselves Atlanta along with a list of locales held to be definitely NOT Atlanta.

So, who is Atlanta? Am I Atlanta? According to Omerettà, definitely not. I am NOT Atlanta despite having voted in the last five Atlanta municipal elections. I am NOT Atlanta despite being able to rap along to most of OutKast’s oeuvre. And I am NOT Atlanta despite long ago having thoroughly abandoned my boyhood Lions, Tigers, and Pistons in favor of the Falcons, Braves, and Hawks.

So who is Atlanta?

Conjuring an image of someone who is thoroughly Atlanta isn’t hard to do. Born at Grady. Graduated from Mays High School. Attended college at Clark Atlanta followed by law school at Georgia State. A house in a neighborhood off Cascade and a job with the City Law Department.

Or maybe this variation of Atlanta. Born at Piedmont Hospital. K-12 at the Lovett School. A brief sojourn to Athens and the University of Georgia followed by a return to Atlanta and a job at Cousins Properties. A place near Mom and Dad off West Paces was a little out of reach, but they are loving their little place in Collier Hills.

As with anything in Atlanta, race lies somewhere near the heart of the matter. Anyone with the most baseline understanding of Atlanta will have pictured in their mind’s eye a Black person for the first example. And almost certainly a white person for the second example.

For over a half century this Black/white, north/south dichotomy has been a defining feature of Atlanta. Recently this paradigm has begun to fragment with the rapidly changing and diverse Eastside of Atlanta, upon whose votes Mayor Andre Dickens rode to victory, as the epicenter. For better or for worse, in a few years time Atlanta will no longer be a majority Black city. Percentage growth in the city’s Latino and AAPI communities has been massive. All of this makes the archetypes previously discussed seem increasingly antiquated. And, of course, it all further muddles the conversation about exactly who is Atlanta.

Regardless of their race, Native Atlantans are only rivaled by vegans and atheists in how early in a conversation they will make you aware of their status. Unlike our meatless and/or Godless friends, a proclamation of native Atlanta status lacks any element of proselytization. Instead it is intended to make you aware of their exalted status, and with it an implication that you will never achieve it. And if the intent is to make someone like me feel less-than in my own city, it never misses the mark.

But maybe we would all be better off if we stopped worrying about whether we are Atlanta and simply learned to love our fair city and our place within it. Whether you have been here for six months or your entire life, if you are invested in making the world’s greatest city even better then you are Atlanta enough for me.

At the same time, those of us newer to the city need to know our limitations. We should pay proper respect to longtime residents and not seek to immediately remake the city to our idealized vision. Lord knows that when I first moved to the city I was full of that famous white boy confidence in my knowledge of what was best for Atlanta.  What I was lacking was perspective, a knowledge of the city’s history, and the humility to shut my mouth and listen.

So go forth. Take the BeltLine to Piedmont Park for the Atlanta Jazz Festival. Suffer through another Falcons season. Grab a bite on Buford Highway. Run the Peachtree Road Race. Have your family reunion at Grant Park. Complain about the trash not getting picked up. Again. And do it all with the confidence that if you want to be Atlanta, so long as you respect those who came before you and built this beautiful city, then you are Atlanta. And maybe, if you’re so inclined, choose to raise your kids here so that one day they can be the ones announcing to a room full of people that they are Native Atlantans.