New Jersey is the only state in America that does not have a state anthem. Now, I know what you are thinking: since when did state anthems exist? Most states do a poor job of bringing their songs to the public eye (or ear in this case), but state anthems have existed for a long time–Iowa and South Carolina were the first states to adopt anthems in 1911. The majority of states adopted theirs in the mid-twentieth century.
I will admit that my first sentence is misleading. Maryland currently lacks an anthem, as they repealed their old problematic one a few years back. Michigan never purchased the copyright for their anthem, so they hardly count. But instead of presenting wacky facts or in depth commentary regarding the anthems of other states (perhaps another time), I wish to discuss the laborious–and ultimately failed–saga of the New Jersey state anthem. At the very least Maryland had a song, and Michigan could have had a song and will have a song once the copyright expires. New Jersey was never given such luxuries.
The first person to fight for a New Jersey anthem was Red Mascara, whose story is surprisingly tragic for a topic so arguably silly. Mascara, also known as Joseph Rocco Mascari, was a World War II veteran and a semi-obscure songwriter. In 1960, he was presented with an opportunity: the New Jersey governor was calling for a state song. Thus, the song “I’m From New Jersey” was born. Mascara’s creation was a fun, upbeat, and celebratory choral piece, more wholesome than grand.
As the years passed, the song gained traction. It was sung at public events and was fairly recognizable to Jersey citizens. Then, in 1972, after patient persistence, Mascara was met with a glimmer (more like a beacon) of hope. A bill was proposed to make “I’m From New Jersey” the state anthem. To convince state legislators of his plight, Mascara gave them candy and indulged in friendly conversation. It was an unorthodox strategy, but it paid off; the New Jersey assembly accepted the song, and then the senate. It was so, so close to becoming official. So close, in fact, that the song’s fate fell into the hands of one guy, Governor William Cahill. Cahill had two choices: he could be the hero of this story, or he could be the villain. I think you know which one he chose.
Sadly, the governor decided to veto the bill. Why? Because he did not like it. Well, to be fair, I am sure the decision involved more than just a petty vendetta. What he actually disliked could have been anything from the tune to the mood to the style, but my guess is that the lyrics were its downfall. They go as follows:
I’m from New Jersey and I’m proud about it, I love the Garden State.
I’m from New Jersey and I want to shout it, I think it’s simply great.
All of the other states throughout the nation may mean a lot to some;
But I wouldn’t want another, Jersey is like no other, I’m glad that’s where I’m from.
If you want glamour, try Atlantic City or Wildwood by the sea;
Then there is Trenton, Princeton, and Fort Monmouth, they all made history.
Each little town has got that certain something, from High Point to Cape May;
And some place like Mantoloking, Phillipsburg, or Hoboken will steal your heart away.
As you can see, these lyrics, while heartfelt, were specific to a fault. They shouted out the names of a few towns while leaving out hundreds of others, so could they really do the whole state justice? Sure, the song is nice, but is “nice” enough when it comes to choosing the state anthem? And I hate to say it, but in my opinion, the lyrics are a bit childish in the way they portray Jersey pride. You cannot be more obvious than “I’m from New Jersey and I’m proud about it”.
But while the song was far from perfect, Mascara put such an earnest effort into making it official that you cannot help but empathize with the guy. His fight lasted fifty-five years. That is over three times longer than I have been alive! But alas, he never lived to see success; Mascara passed away in 2015, dying with the knowledge that his song would likely never get accepted by the New Jersey legislature.
Melodramatic tragedy is not the end of this story, however. In 1980, just a few years after the Mascara debacle, another song entered the New Jersey Senate: “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen. The song had grown very, very popular, especially among young people (it was seen as the “unofficial rock theme of our state’s youth” by legislators). But its legislative journey started accidentally; one night, over the radio, disc jockey Carol Miller joked that “Born to Run” was the New Jersey state anthem due to its popularity. Once she learned that New Jersey actually needed a state anthem (people had contacted her station about the matter), she petitioned for it, with the help of a lucky connection who had a lucky connection. In simple terms, her friend Robert Vistocky was the son of someone in the state legislature, so he suggested the idea to his father; his father loved it so much that he proposed “Born to Run” to be the new state anthem.
This time, there are no villain governors…the senate rejected the bill before it had a real chance.
So, why did it fail? Well, allegedly (probably), the senators listened to the song and realized what it was actually about. I think the lyrics speak for themselves:
Oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we’re young
‘Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run
It is hilarious that a song about leaving New Jersey was considered to be our anthem. At least “I’m From New Jersey” actually celebrated New Jersey. Then again, there is an argument to be made that “Born to Run” is a worthy anthem. This 1980 column in the New York Times, written by Richard A. Lee, argued that “any song that has helped to popularize New Jersey certainly deserves consideration for the distinction of becoming the state’s official anthem”. That same man, now a professor, is fighting again for the song (he started in late 2025). I do wonder if “Born to Run” will reach the New Jersey senate again. If it did, I have no idea if they would reject it for the same reasons or look past the lyrics and see it purely as a cultural icon.
There have been a few more attempts to create a state song, all of which were much less theatrical. In 1996, the New Jersey Council of the Arts had a competition to select a state song. “New Jersey My Home”, by Patrick D. Finlay, won. But as you would expect, the bill to make this song official (drafted in 2012) never went anywhere. Most recently, in 2024, the song “New Jersey’s For You and Me”, written by Kanthleen Murphy and Shannon Flannery, was suggested as a potential anthem. While the lyrics are arguably cheesy, the song’s use of a triumphant orchestra certainly makes it sound like an anthem. But at the end of the day, it does not matter what I or anyone else thinks. The status of the bill is still pending, stuck in some sort of limbo; it will either fail like the rest, or fade into obscurity–in fact, it has faded into obscurity already.
What is deeply ironic about the anthem issue is that so many great musicians have come from New Jersey. We can claim Bruce Springsteen, Charlie Puth, Bon Jovi, Whitney Houston, Frank Sinatra, Queen Latifah, and many more. Not one of these people decided to make a state song? Not one of them saw the issues with an anthem-less life? Frank Sinatra showed more love for New York than his own state! But blaming our musicians ignores an important aspect of our state anthem dilemma: people have tried. Multiple people have tried. They did not fail out of a lack of effort on their part; if anything, the legislature failed them.
But does it really matter if we have an anthem? State anthems are hardly relevant in today’s society. And besides, are Jersey people proud enough of their state to warrant one? If a random group of New Jerseyans came together to write an anthem that honestly represented us, it would be 50% rant about traffic and 50% rant about taxes (100% complaint). Even if the anthem they created was positive, the state is so divided and diverse that it is difficult to write lyrics that anyone would relate to. The state may be small, but so much is packed in that it hardly feels cohesive. Driving from one town to the next is like taking a portal to another world. North and South Jersey might as well be separate continents (and Central Jersey fights for its acknowledgement).
The more I think about it, the more I realize that not having a state anthem is more Jersey than having one.
