Finding a Place to Call Home

One question that I dread in small talk is "Where are you from?" I know my usual answer, "I am from the United States" will likely not be accepted and I will need to get more specific. This is difficult. However, this problem is not new to me. I am a third culture kid all grown up. Finding a home identity has been an ever changing quest further complicated by a nomadic stay in the United States. And for those of you who want the list of places I have lived, here it is. (This does not include all the houses and apartments I have lived in.)

1. Kentucky (born - 9 months)
2. Madrid, Spain (9 months - 5 years old)
3. Kentucky (5 - 7 years old)
4. Madrid, Spain (7 - 12 years old)
5. Kentucky (12 - 15 years old)
6. New Jersey (15 - 17 years old)
7. Indiana (17 - 26 years old)
8. Nebraska (26 - 26 years old)
9. Oregon (1 month stay)
10. New Jersey (permanent address, for now)
11. London area, Great Britain (27 - present)

This list may seem short to some and long to others. It really is all a matter perspective. There have been times in my life when I felt like I had a place I was from. Most notably, when I was living in Indiana, I felt as though I was from New Jersey since I had graduated from high school there and my immediate family lived there. However, most of life can be classified as being confused. When I was growing up in Spain I did not know the country of my birth all that well and I was not from the country I was living in. Both felt a little like home and both felt foreign and I did not sense that I belonged to either. I did not develop a sense of cultural identity until my mid twenties, when I finally accepted my American background. (Besides being from the land of pioneers who survived the worst of conditions is pretty cool. I like that about my heritage and I am proud of it.)

However, America is a big country, what state, or city am I from? Where can I call home? What do I define as home? These questions pressed more heavily when I relocated to Great Britain. When I asked where I was from, I would either avoid the question or make an attempt at humor to disguise that I did not have any sense where to call home. It was painful. I found individuals to be predominately unsympathetic and was sometimes told where I should call home based on their definition. Naturally, others who have spent their life in transition can understand this dilemma, and do not expect understanding from those who do not know a nomadic lifestyle. I realized that I needed to define what "home" and being "from somewhere" meant to me.

For me, it needed to be more that just a place I had lived. It needed to be a place I could return to and still feel safe. It needed to be place where people still remembered me and would be excited to see me if I returned. Home is place full of people that make you feel like you belong. It is the smells that you miss once you leave, the streets you could walk with your eyes closed, the foods you crave, the place that makes you smile when you talk about it. The place where you are the most you. This for me is home. This is where I am from. The location has changed a few times over the course of my life, but I know where I am from right now. In my heart, I am from Lincoln, Nebraska.

From the first time I landed in Lincoln to go to a physics conference, I felt comfortable. When I left three days later, I wanted to go back. I spent the following summer there in the wonderful heat. I fell in love with the prairie and it's wild, untamed beauty. I became myself again. I left at the end of that summer only to return four months later to live there full time.

Moving so far away on my own was terrifying and I was afraid I had made a mistake. I had a small apparent, one block away from the towering state capitol building. However, within a month, I started making friends. I found a friend to go on long bike rides with. I found people who invited me to their homes and helped me learn how to be car free. I found someone to drink cheap wine with and talk about life. I found a team of amazing women to ride bikes with. And then there were the gravel roads. The stunning paths of rocks and dirt that could carry you for hundreds of miles through wilderness, planes, tiny towns, and breathtaking beauties. There were so many long bike rides and each one ending at the state capitol.

My bike in front of the Nebraska State Capitol at the end of a Century Ride

I crave the ice cream from Ivana Cone, the food truck tacos, the pizza from Yia Yia's, and the treats from countless local restaurants. I miss the heavy heat of the summers. I miss Tuesday night bike rides with stops to drink cheap beer. The art shows, the jazz, the amiable openness of the residence, and the feeling of belonging. It is clear, that though my time was short, Lincoln left its mark on me. I have kept my ties there through wearing my cycling team's colors, sporting the goods of Lincoln artists, through emails, letters, and cards, and sharing my found memories with anyone who wants to know me better. I know that should I return, I would be welcome.

For now, the place I am from is Nebraska, because it is the place I miss the most. Home will likely remain fluid for me and I may move to another place later that will also capture my heart. That is okay, but for now I can finally answer the question I used to dread.