When Steve Rogers was young, New York assumed he'd grow up to be a famous artist some day.
A nation always knows when one of their own will be Important. Everyone, of course, is important, immeasurably important, in their own ways, and no one knows this better than nations. But the famous ones, the ones that will change things, make a noticeable difference, the sort of people who will get written about in history books and remembered for centuries to come, nations always recognize them. They won't know what about them will be important, whether they'll be remembered as good or evil, what they'll do to make themselves important, but they can always sense it. A sort of pull. This one. This one will be part of you forever.
It isn't like New York knows Steve Rogers well. They didn't have any reason to interact. But he was aware of him. Knew his likes, his dislikes, his passion. New York was rooting for him so hard, this sickly, scrappy child who was so kind and courageous and angry.
"You can't die," he thought, when doctors shook their heads mournfully, "You're going to do something great."
New York was was busy, he had a lot of things to do, was a lot of things, a lot of people. But Steve Rogers existed to him in his small way, by impressions, indomitable will and charcoal smudges.
Steve Rogers would be famous someday, would revolutionize comics or animation or create works of art to hang in museums for centuries to come.
When Steve Rogers faked his way into the war, well, New York was incredibly proud of him for it.
(He thought about book titles "The Boy Who Drew in the Trenches" full of pencil drawings and illustrations incorrectly colored, showing innovation and promise and heart, an artistic career cut short becoming a symbol for the war and loss of life as a whole. Or perhaps he would do something in the war. He had no idea how one common soldier could change the course of a war, or even a battle, but if it could be done, Steve Rogers would be the one to do it.)
When he heard the news of Erksine's experiment and its success, he felt… robbed. It had to be more than this. Steve Rogers was more than a stepping stone of science, more than a passive object in someone else's story.
When Steve Rogers became Captain America, New York felt a little better about the whole thing, but the war still felt terribly far away. And while he was happy for that kind hearted kid he'd felt grow up, that he'd grown to be big enough and strong enough to make a difference, to help people, it still didn't feel quite right. In the eyes of history, little Stevie from Brooklyn should have been enough.
"I knew that kid would be something since the moment he enlisted," America said proudly.
"I've known since he was five years old," New York thought, and tried not to feel resentful.
When Captain America died, it was only the comic books and propaganda reels that were remembered, and New York thought about cartoon monkeys drawn (in vivid colors) in the margins of reports, and felt that the world was terribly unfair.