Where am I from?

I was recently on an airplane, traveling from my parents’ house in the Chicago area to visit my boyfriend who has an internship with a large computer-y company in California.  I’ve never flown alone before, so right up until I boarded the plane I was on edge about something going wrong.  But as soon as that seatbelt sign came on, I felt that weird dry lump in my throat dissipate and I suddenly felt much more extroverted than I really am.  I had a similar experience during my first week of college.

The girl sitting next to me was young, maybe 11.  Too young to sit up with her father in the emergency-exit row in front of us, so she had switched seats with the Navy-boot-camp graduate.  I asked her if she had ever flown before, and though she hesitated before saying yes, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a lie, since her enthusiasm during takeoff and landing was tragically lower than it should have been for someone of her age.  As we were taxiing to the runway, I noticed out my window the silhouette of the Chicago skyline, and, being a history teacher at heart, I wanted to make sure she saw it if she was interested.

“Are you from Chicago?” I asked.

“No, I’m from California.”

“Oh, so you’re going home?  That’s nice.”

Before I could point out the Sears and the John Hancock to her, she asked, “Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” I said, without much thought.  That came later.

A few seconds passed and then the skyline was in clear view from her angle.  I pointed it out and she was clearly unimpressed, and I got a sudden pang of the kids-these-days syndrome I’d seen strike so many other, much older people.  I brushed it away, remembering that, when I was 11, I would have been more interested in playing Super Mario on my DS than in looking at the far off, foggy figure of some buildings in an unfamiliar city—that is, if I had had a Nintendo DS and had spent much time in unfamiliar cities.

If you're looking for Lake Michican, don't hurt yourself in the effort.
This is not Chicago.

That was when the thought struck me.  Was I really from Pittsburgh?  Had I just lied to this prepubescent gamer?  Granted, she wouldn’t notice if I had, but the question still bugged me.  I’d spent only about a total of 2.5 weeks in Pittsburgh in my whole life, and during one of those, I was practically hermited in my subleased apartment.  I wouldn’t recognize the Pittsburgh skyline if it wore a “Hello, my name is” sticker and politely introduced itself.  I didn’t back the Penguins for the Stanley cup.  I needed the Automated Annie on my phone to get me to the nearest Aldi.  No one would accept that I was from Pittsburgh if they pushed me to defend myself.

So, the next likeliest place for me to call home base would be Chicago.  I know my way around—the highway system, at least—I cheered on the Bulls back in the nineties and I have strongly considered buying a Blackhawks celebratory t-shirt (which, if you know how much sports paraphernalia I own, you’ll know is a big deal for me).  My cell phone has a Chicago area code.  The skyline and lakeshore still feel like home when I see them, and when someone says, “Let’s go to Navy Pier,” I flinch reflexively.

But I’ve been in the Chicago area for over a month now, and though I’ve eaten about seven Chicago-style hot dogs in that time, I’ve been living out of a suitcase and telling my family about how my move has been going.  I was born here, I took field trips to all the museums, did school projects on Fort Dearborn and the Great Chicago Fire, and went downtown countless times with my father to take-your-daughter-to-work day, but those were all decidedly past-tense events in my life.

How do we measure our connection to a place?  Is it the existence of memories enjoyed there or the way those memories work together to represent who we are?  And if it is the latter, how can we even know in this life where we are “from”?  Can we—limited as human understanding of the longue-durée of our own lives is—see in any detail the ways in which a place has shaped us?

If I were to guess, I’d have to say that Grand Rapids, Michigan has really been the most formative city in my past.  I came of age there, came into my faith, my political efficacy, my social and cultural understanding of myself and the world around me, and my concept of a vocation and the first questions I asked of what mine might be.  I’ve done token-Grand-Rapids things, been token-Grand-Rapids places, and dreamed idly of what a long-term life there might look for me, but when I went back a month after graduating to attend the visitation and funeral of a beloved professor of mine, it did not feel like my city anymore.

Truth is, neither do Chicago or Pittsburgh.  I feel like I don’t have a “my city,” which, to me, makes it feel a lot like I don’t have a home.

This realization could be sad, lonely, even frightening especially for someone whose strength-finder results said her number-one strength was connection.  And in fact, my life has been more than the usual amount of sad, lonely, and frightening lately, so it would be natural to let this realization—made while munching a Tapas airplane snack that I paid too much for—sink in with all the rest.

Most of what I own.  Stored in a Uhaul in Pennsylvania

But back in January, somewhere around the time everyone else was making resolutions to get in shape or to reconnect with lost friends, I was singing along with John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats, proclaiming “I’m gonna make it through this year if it kills me.”  And since the siege by lucky number 2013 is clearly underway, my best defense is to look at this homelessness, this disconnection, as an opportunity I’ve never had before.  For the first time in my life, I am no longer in school, and I am also not yet employed.  I am renting an apartment to which I possess no keys and I have the lion’s share of my childhood packed away in boxes in my Prius.  For once, I am as indefinable—by most Western social standards, anyway—as I ever have been and perhaps ever will be again.  I am not alone; I have the whole world as my home and all of its citizens as my company.  While I make my way though this rocky period, I am doing just that.  Making my way.  I am as connected as I choose to be to all the places, people, and experiences around me.  What more could my strength-finder ask for?

“Where are you from?” asked the little girl, maybe out of politeness or habit.

What I should have said was, “You know what, I don’t know.  Let’s find out, shall we?”