Listening to Edward Sharpe's song "Home" that crones, "Home is wherever I'm with you," I realize that I'm lucky to have a loving family that gives me a home wherever we go. And this is good, but there are times when I long for more.
I grew up near Atlanta with Ohioan parents of German, English, and Irish decent. The most I know about my family is that my mother got my grandfather's red hair, freckles, and fiery temper, and that my father's grandfather floated on a raft down the river into Ohio from Canada. How he got from Germany to Canada is a mystery to the family.
Throughout my childhood, my grandparents were mostly dead or estranged. The one grandmother I had contact with was in a nursing home in Ohio, and when we did see her, the visits took place in a dark room where little conversation transpired. Due to this lack of contact with extended family, my background is enigmatic to me.
After Atlanta I moved from city to city: Houston, Orlando, Jackson, and others. I was blown around by school and jobs. The more I moved, the harder it became to answer the question, "Where are you from?" When people ask me that, what I really want to say is, "What is home?", like Arthur Dent in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. His planet was recently blown up, and he was on board a stolen ship lost in the universe. This is similar to the feeling that washes over me when people ask where my home is. However, to be polite and avoid a long and awkward conversation, I pick the last place I lived.
Now I live in the Middle East with my small family. Farthest from whatever concept of home I've ever had, I find myself searching for and trying to connect to some roots, any I can find.
Due to my German maiden name (Wilhelm), blonde hair, and large frame, I've always felt the most connection to my German family. Why did my grandparents leave Germany? Why didn't they stay and give me a home, some roots, a real heritage? Maybe for the same reasons why we keep moving our son around from place to place. Every day he begs to go back to Texas, the place he calls home. If we move back there will it be enough, or will he someday search for deeper roots, as well?
A benefit to living where we do now is that we are relatively close to Europe. This summer I will go to Munich to drink its beer, hike its Alps, and hope for some mystic connection to "where my ancestors are from."
I have to think that there are many Americans who feel this way. Most of our ancestors came from somewhere else. We've adopted a somewhat homogenous American culture, and in many ways we're lucky to have that. But for me, there's always been this ghost itch for some time-honored culture that remains in the place from where our ancestors fled.
And I find myself constantly searching for "a real home." A place where I fit in, where the air feels right in my lungs, where the way people interact with each other makes sense. I'm waiting to fall in love with it in the way that I fell in love with my husband.
I don't honestly expect to find this fictional place, but I do expect to find something. Maybe myself, maybe some knowledge that every place is in some ways the same. Whatever the outcome, I am lucky to have a family to go with me. I know that wherever we "go back to" by choice or obligation, it will give me a place to call home when I'm asked, at least for now.
I grew up near Atlanta with Ohioan parents of German, English, and Irish decent. The most I know about my family is that my mother got my grandfather's red hair, freckles, and fiery temper, and that my father's grandfather floated on a raft down the river into Ohio from Canada. How he got from Germany to Canada is a mystery to the family.
Throughout my childhood, my grandparents were mostly dead or estranged. The one grandmother I had contact with was in a nursing home in Ohio, and when we did see her, the visits took place in a dark room where little conversation transpired. Due to this lack of contact with extended family, my background is enigmatic to me.
After Atlanta I moved from city to city: Houston, Orlando, Jackson, and others. I was blown around by school and jobs. The more I moved, the harder it became to answer the question, "Where are you from?" When people ask me that, what I really want to say is, "What is home?", like Arthur Dent in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. His planet was recently blown up, and he was on board a stolen ship lost in the universe. This is similar to the feeling that washes over me when people ask where my home is. However, to be polite and avoid a long and awkward conversation, I pick the last place I lived.
Now I live in the Middle East with my small family. Farthest from whatever concept of home I've ever had, I find myself searching for and trying to connect to some roots, any I can find.
Due to my German maiden name (Wilhelm), blonde hair, and large frame, I've always felt the most connection to my German family. Why did my grandparents leave Germany? Why didn't they stay and give me a home, some roots, a real heritage? Maybe for the same reasons why we keep moving our son around from place to place. Every day he begs to go back to Texas, the place he calls home. If we move back there will it be enough, or will he someday search for deeper roots, as well?
A benefit to living where we do now is that we are relatively close to Europe. This summer I will go to Munich to drink its beer, hike its Alps, and hope for some mystic connection to "where my ancestors are from."
I have to think that there are many Americans who feel this way. Most of our ancestors came from somewhere else. We've adopted a somewhat homogenous American culture, and in many ways we're lucky to have that. But for me, there's always been this ghost itch for some time-honored culture that remains in the place from where our ancestors fled.
And I find myself constantly searching for "a real home." A place where I fit in, where the air feels right in my lungs, where the way people interact with each other makes sense. I'm waiting to fall in love with it in the way that I fell in love with my husband.
I don't honestly expect to find this fictional place, but I do expect to find something. Maybe myself, maybe some knowledge that every place is in some ways the same. Whatever the outcome, I am lucky to have a family to go with me. I know that wherever we "go back to" by choice or obligation, it will give me a place to call home when I'm asked, at least for now.
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