Where You From, Girl?

Before we were married, my husband took me to his high school reunion.  My mind was kind of blown that there, in that room, there were a hundred people who played little league with, went through puberty with, and were growing grey with him.  I couldn’t really understand that kind of connection with someone who was not family.  I realized that I could name maybe 5 unrelated people who are still in my life now that also knew me before I needed a training bra.

There’s a simple and ordinary question – one that we all hear in all kinds of settings – for which I never seem to have a good answer.  “Where are you from?”

Easy, right?  We should all be able to rattle off the name of a place and move on.  Unless you come from a military family but even then, you’ve got an easy “military brat” response and move on to the next topic.  I know I’m hardly alone in this.  In this era, people are transient.  Families pack up and follow jobs and dreams every day and it’s not unusual to have grown up all over the map.  Still, while it may be becoming more common, it always throws a hiccup into conversational flow.

I know where I was born (Belleville, IL just across the river from St. Louis).  I lived there until I was five and that is still where the heart of my people resides and we all return to recharge the familial battery.  I spent nearly every summer of my childhood there and I have very fond memories of the people, the activities, and the place, but have no real recollection of actually living there.  My older siblings are more connected to the place and some have settled and built their lives there.   For them, it is the answer to the question.  They are from St. Louis.  Or Belleville, if they’re being specific.

We loaded the car, left everything we knew and headed east to Baltimore.  Baltimore holds memories of my first real school.  My first real friends.  A neighborhood full of mischief and adventures with a friendly corner store, a library in biking distance, and everything I could ever need within a radius of several blocks.  A few of those neighborhood people are still in our lives and the time there definitely shaped a part of my identity.  So the city loving girl in me, the part of me who loves the smell of Old Bay Seasoning and kind of believes in Chessie The Sea Monster is from Baltimore.

In the 70s, things were getting rough for my older siblings in the city schools, so we packed it up again and moved across the state line to the boonies of Pennsylvania.  We tromped through the woods, hiked to waterfalls and soaked in the beauty around us but I – my entire family, really – never belonged there.  In a land where the klan was alive and well, where my single mother was shunned by other parents, and where we were observed with the same interest one would take with the gorilla exhibit at the zoo, we were That Albert Family and we were not from around there.  I hung on to a few people from the area and I retain that love of hiking and nature, but I never looked back.  I am NOT from York County, Pennsylvania.  At all. 

Over time, brothers and sisters flew from the nest to find their own way, so my mother, sister and I packed it up again and headed south.  Mom and I often daydreamed about the south and imagined a new life in a cute little town with front porches and friendly people.  Instead, we landed in Panama City Beach, FL.  We visited my brother there and fell in love.  My mother found a beautiful little slice of paradise.  I found home. 

It was far from ideal.  We were poorer than we’d been in a very long time.  Every day was a struggle to just keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, but it was still absolute perfection to me.  I walked for miles on the beach every day, rain or shine.  At 13, I landed my first job – a physically HARD job cleaning rooms and doing laundry at a beach front motel – and I went to sleep with a smile every single night.  For the first time in my life, I walked into a school where my last name had no pre-conceived notions and people just met Terri.  In fact, that’s where I got to know Terri myself.

After a while, it became clear that my mother needed to go back to PA.  And then she gave me the most amazing gift ever.  She allowed me to stay.  I was always cared for.  I stayed with a friend, I stayed with my brother, I stayed with my father (who wandered and settled himself!), it didn't matter.  I stayed.  But I was largely on my own and I bloomed there among the sea oats and the sand spurs.  I found my heart and my mind and I found Home.  I am from Panama City Beach.  I am from the Gulf.  I am from The Redneck Riviera. 

Of course, once a drifter, it’s easy to think you should keep moving.  I made my way back to my mother in Philadelphia.  I definitely did NOT belong there and couldn’t get out fast enough.  To this day, hearing a Philly or NJ accent evokes a facial tic and instinct to flee.  I drifted to Colorado and never felt comfortable there.  I even went back to the familial hometown briefly and enjoyed being surrounded by people who look like me, but I never found my footing.  After ricocheting around for a bit, I landed in Atlanta.  Given my history, I figured I’d be here a short time and move along.

More than twenty years later, I’m still here.  This big city welcomed me like a small town.  Here, there were some familiar faces of friends made at my beach, there was activity and nightlife and there was nature.  And it sure didn't hurt that The Beach O'My Heart is an easy drive away.  There have been great challenges, some disappointments, and loads of adventures.  I’ve lived here longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere in my life.  And, eventually, my mother joined me.  And then a sister.  And a brother.  And a cousin.  Here, I found community, found the love of my life, created a family, made lifelong friends and created a HOME. 

The tumbleweed in me still daydreams of one more shot at The Beach O'My Heart.  Or of a fresh start in unchartered territory.  Every vacation makes me say "I could live here".  And then I see my daughter clutching her second grade yearbook like it’s precious treasure.  Maybe it is.  She has a hometown.  She has a bit of a southern twang.  She has an answer to that question.