Where Are You From?

Where are you from?

It's a loaded question, that one. When I was little, I had very little idea exactly how much meaning such a question carried. When someone asked, I would give the location of my father's last assignment. Usually, I had been happy to leave that place as I felt the odd one out most of the time. Yet, I felt strangely connected to those who had formerly inhabited my life and I often defended the speech patterns or customs of my old home as if I had belonged. This confused me.

Though he grew up destined to roam the country, my father is from Pennsylvania. He still has family there and he is well versed in the local custom, lore and food in what is called 'Pennsylvania Dutch Country.' His family is of German descent. They eat apple dumplings, blood pudding, stuffed pig stomach, shoo fly pie and 'chicken pot pie.' That last bit looked an awful lot like chicken and dumplings to me.

My Dad's mother could make a meal out of flour, salt and pepper, milk and butter. It is a soup, actually, and isn't as disgusting as it sounds. I grew up rather partial to her chicken gravy. When company was coming, she 'read up' the house. That meant that you cleaned up; you made it ready, which is where the phrase probably originated. I also learned that children 'daresnt' play in the street or they ended up in trouble.

Those oddities of speech amused my mother, who is from Kentucky. While her family has spread for economic reasons, they never forget their roots. Her family is basically of Celtic and Norse extraction; some of my ancestors are part of a clan which was almost exterminated in the Battle of Culloden. They eat biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, and drink sweet tea. Breakfast is served off plates in the center of the table, family style.

My Mom's mother could also made meals out of practically nothing, but instead of milk and flour, she used dried beans and whatever meat got trapped that day. She made corn bread in a skillet in the oven and the world's best biscuits. She would ask 'what went with that broom?' when she couldn't find it. When she found that one of the children was playing with said broom, she'd loudly proclaim 'that young-un needs killin' and I'm fixin to take care of it!' Once she caught us, we were swatted or put to bed early. In Kentucky, you dont always die when you 'need killing', especially if you are a 'young-un.'

I grew up to love and respect my heritage from both sides of my family. I've enjoyed grits both as a creamy breakfast cereal (Dad's family assumed it was similar to farina) and a side dish to be drowned in butter, salt and pepper or covered with eggs and gravy. I've had chicken and dumplings made with fat puffy dumplings and with flat ones. It always amazed me that my parents fought over these things. I didn't care much about the differences and didn't understand at all.

Now I do. It happened gradually, as I began remembering some events in my past. I moved south the first time when I was in Kindergarten. Dad went into a gas station to pay for his gas. A local waved at him and said 'Hey!' Dad spun around and answered, 'Hey what?' Mom laughed at him. She said, 'He was just saying hello.' 'Well why doesn't he say that?' Dad asked, genuinely confused. Mom answered 'He did. Hey is Southern for hello.'

And I can tell you about the time we were up north and Mom ordered a sweet tea. The waitress looked at Mom as if she'd sprouted two heads. In the end, Mom ended up with some cold iced tea and some packets of sugar. Ordering sweet tea north of the Mason-Dixon line was out of the question for her in the future.

These things are all humourous, yet they are telling. It is amazing how different people can be from one place to another. There are things I'll never know about North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, California, Vermont, Kentucky, South Carolina or New Jersey. This is true even though I have lived in all those places. What I have learned I can keep as treasured memories and interesting experiences.

However, the process of constantly moving has robbed me of something my parents had. My parents each have a hometown. Despite the fact that they spent most of their adult lives away, they are 'from' somewhere. In contrast to this, I may have kin but I am from nowhere. Because I do not have deep roots I am and probably always will be outside of any local culture.

I can appear to fit in anywhere if I try hard enough for long enough. At a young age, I learned to change my manner of speech within a few weeks of moving to match that of the locals. It was easier to do this than to endure the harassment of others. However, about 6 years ago I gave up the practice. I realised that mimicking the speech patterns of the local population does not make you an integral part of that community and therefore it was somewhat fake.

My vagabond years has not only affected my familiarity with local food and custom, it affects relationships. Unlike most of my family and friends, I can leave those I love behind with little remorse. For me, the connection to loved ones is not connected to a place; therefore I know that am still connected to those I can not touch. I also find that constantly changing place has left me cautious and standoffish. I make friends slowly. This is not something I learned living in a specific cultural context; it is something I learned out of self preservation. Being outside the culture sometimes means the locals do not accept me, which tends to be hurtful if I care too much.

When I look at my children I sometimes note that their early lives mirrored my own. Their father was also military. Yet, we have lived here for most of their school years and Gaston is the closest thing they could have to a hometown. I believe it will be better for them and I will do whatever I can to make it so. I want them to have the chance to put down roots which don't have wheels beside them. I will make sure they know the stories, the history, the food, the music, the smells, the people...the culture of this place. This way, they can say 'I'm from a small town outside Columbia, SC' and they really WILL be.