Home Sweet Home
My life as a nomad started pretty young. To be honest, I wasn’t as excited about moving to new places at the beginning. Nichole and I were born in Lake Charles, Louisiana. We lived in Texas [that’s where Andrea and Monique came], West Virginia, Virginia, and Tennessee [that’s where Austin would eventually come MUCH later].
We made it to all those places before we were teenagers, and it weaved into us a pretty serious and solid travel bug. Along with a severe need for an elevator speech for when we are asked, “Where are you from?” - a question that literally everyone asks. Neither of us have been able so far to perfect the elevator speech, as no answer ever seems to appease people who are from one place.
Some things we’ve tried?
“I’m from all over.” Inviting them into the obvious next question, “Were your parents in the military?” and then “Oh, why did you move around so much then?” and “Where did you live?” It’s never a one-off, and on to some conversation with more substance than my childhood. And what kind of person wants to talk about their childhood? And why then does everyone continue to ask the questions? Do you not all feel this way?
We’ve also tried just picking a city out of the bunch, usually attaching ourselves to one that we knew a lot about, because inevitably this person will happen to know all about that place and many of the people in it. Let me explain why this doesn’t really work either…
“I’m from Lake Charles, Louisiana.” Well, this is technically true since we were born there and our dad’s family grew up there, and some even still live there. But then they ask, “Do you know the Charbonnet family from Lake Charles?” No. “How ‘bout the Bourgeois family? They’ve got some kids that are probably about your age.” No, okay, and here we go. “So I was only there for the first couple years of my life, but we go back a lot, and I have family there, and even though I don’t really know, I do think it is what a hometown is supposed to feel like inside my insides, you know?” To which they’ll say, “Well, where else did you live?” and “Were your parents in the military?” and… here we are again.
Okay, let’s try another city. “I’m from Mt. Juliet, Tennessee.” We lived there for a long time as kids. Five years. I learned to drive in Mt. Juliet, and there is only one other place in the world that I am not always lost. So that feels a lot like home, I guess. But by the time we got there, the luster of making new friends had really worn off. And getting there in sixth grade was a rough time to jump into the double dutch, and I never really felt like I could be myself fully.
Don’t get me wrong. There were some really nice people there who would hang out with me even though I was pretty awkward, never myself, and always felt part unwanted and part seventh wheel. They felt sorry for me, I was sure of it, and I’d have to be really helpful if I wanted them to keep me around - a feeling I have yet to get over completely. I did find the people eventually who would get me through most of the high school experience, and I am grateful for them.
Circling back, I’m from Mt. Juliet inevitably receives a next question of something like, “Where did you go to elementary school? I have an aunt who used to teach at Gladeville.” And it’s worth a shot, so I just say, “Nope. I didn’t go to Gladeville,” hoping this will end it and maybe take us somewhere else, maybe to a place with some room for me to breathe. But no. “Well, where did you go to school then?” Ugggghhhhh….
“I didn’t go to elementary school there. Well, technically I did but only for the last four months of sixth grade so I don’t really think that counts. Although in that time, I took a health class where we were made to get a hunting license and learn to shoot a gun OUT THE BACK DOOR OF THE HEALTH CLASS. And that’s pretty much what I remember about that.”
Notable, to say the least. Can you imagine trying to make “your small talk,” and getting this as a reply. It’s easier just to tell you nothing about me. That way, I won’t have to explain anything. Although, I guess it is quite a tale if you haven’t heard it all before. If you weren’t shaped by it. And that so apparently is going to get us back to yet another interested human asking, “So where did you live when you were in elementary school?” and “Were your parents in the military?”
And thank you interested human for caring, these are my issues. Not yours.
Want to join me in my practice?
Write your elevator speech. Your’s might not be about where you’re from, but we all have one. Well, I think we all have one. What’s the question you wish you could figure out how to answer? You know the one, people ask and your whole body cringes just a little. It’s the question that makes you wish you had a way out, or for a time machine so you could jump ahead a few minutes when the moment feels less awkward.
Don’t need an elevator speech for anything? Good for you!
Ummmm…. maybe just color some flowers, and give the question a little more thought. In case.
I think we should all be dancing more often. Start by just standing up. It’ll be good. I’ll do it too. I miss live music.
