I struggle with the "where are you from?" question. It's not an emotional struggle, just a pause before I offer an answer, especially up here where it seems that everyone is from some nook or cranny of Minnesota/Wisconsin/North Dakota. Sometimes I say I'm originally from Arkansas. Usually, if I feel I have time for a more robust reply, I answer that I grew up in fairly equal measure in Arkansas and St. Louis. But moved here from New Orleans. And before that Kansas City. And before that Morocco. And before that Virginia...
I went back to two former homes recently. Brief stints in both Kansas City and St. Louis reminded me of how often I was "from" those places, how often they were my answer to inquiries as to where I lived, where I was from. Kansas City was brief, referred to as my "lost year" by my Dad on occasion, not with any hint of cruelty, but more so in recognition that the year I spent in Kansas City was a miserable one, a year in unexpected limbo. It was a city I was happy to leave but now am happy to revisit as my dearest friend has built a life there. The time I spend there now is joyful, relaxing, a break from a career I hadn't envisioned when I lived there nearly a decade ago.
The trip to St. Louis has been less frequent, though with my brother and sister-in-law settling there I expect the frequency to increase. Aside from his first 5 years in Arkansas and the 4 years away at college, my brother's life is rooted in that city, those roots now strengthened by a wife who also claims it as her and her family's hometown. I envy that in some ways, which is odd. Odd to have an experience so different from my nearest sibling, only 5 years my junior. Driving around the city where so much has changed and so much remains the same (cliches never hurt anybody), I remember how desperate I was to leave at 17, how constricting that big city felt. And now to return feels equal parts comforting and disorienting. Comforting in the embrace of loved ones and the memories scattered around those western suburbs, and disorienting in how little I know of the city today.
I've lived in Minnesota for almost 6 years. I lived in Arkansas for 10. St. Louis for 7 (with the added summers in college tacking on an additional year). Arkansas still feels like the strongest definition of home to me, not so much for the 10 years I spent there, but because its presence has been strong throughout my life, from birth to childhood to visits over holidays to evacuations from hurricanes. But St. Louis has a strong call, too, as high school angst, friendships, and heartbreaks tend to burn a place into your gut. And New Orleans, too. It may have only taken up 3 years of my life, but there were huge chunks of life shoved into those years, and more so than any other place I've lived, I miss it.
I used to feel funny about answering the question, about defining where I came from. I used to hate saying I was from Minnesota when visiting elsewhere. I felt the need to qualify it. "I live in Minnesota but I'm not originally from there." This wasn't meant as a slight, but rather as a continual reminder to myself that I would leave. Just passing through, another state to accumulate along my way. But I don't think I'd hesitate now. It's just another stop, perhaps, and maybe a longer one, but no less of a home. I was happy to walk the streets I stomped in the past, remember the girl and the woman I was in the years since I left. But I was equally happy to land in Minneapolis afterwards, lace my shoes for a run around these lakes, watch a summer-is-coming sunset kiss the rooftops before bed.
