Where I Come From

The other day I found out that one of the parents in my room originally comes from N. Kingstown, RI. That's a tad bit unusual for these parts. More unusual was my response upon finding out her origin. When she said she was from North Kingstown no one was more surprised than I when I blurted out "I'm from Rhode Island, too!" I'm not. I don't know why I said that. And as I've been thinking about that innocent enough remark, I have to wonder an even deeper issue: am I a Benedictine Arnold? Am I a woman without a country? Do I claim allegiance anywhere?

I spent the first 25 years of my life in Kansas City. I love KC. Loved growing up in its suburbs. Love the culture, the people, the aesthetics, the gentle, green hills of Missouri. I loved it then and I love it now, even though I've only visited once in 14 years. Given the right set of circumstances I'd happily set up the rest of my life there.

But I spent 12 years in New England, most of which were on Block Island. I did most of my growing up in the last ten years. I married on BI, I almost birthed on BI, my biggest heartbreaks are still on BI. I was not a fan of Block Island when first I laid eyes on it, but it slowly won me over until it was very difficult for me to leave. The reasons I left were bigger opportunities than Block Island could offer, but there was such an emotional connection, a place in the community where I actually was useful and appreciated. As the song goes "Everybody dies famous in a small town." I desperately miss a great deal of Block Island, although I don't think I could ever live there again. I miss the people most of all. The small, the great, the interesting personalities. I miss stopping by the Depot to catch up on the important events and attending school events that the island practically shuts down for. I miss playing for church and saying "I'm never doing another Cabaret again" - every year. I miss knitting with the girls, walking on the paths with Gimli and I really miss Sharky's Crab Rangoons with Red Pepper Jelly. Um, and the Calamari. Ask me if I can get a fried calamari here with banana peppers, olives and the right kind of spices. The answer, if you couldn't guess, is "Calamari? What's that?"

Yes, so much of my heart belongs to New England. The aesthetics, the people, the familiarity. But I am a Missouri girl, born and bred. Proud to carry the hallmarks of a Mid-westerner. But am I actually from either place? I barely maintain any of my ties to the city of my birth. There are no longer relatives living there. I don't own property or visit on any regular basis. And Block Island holds one too many heartbreaks for me to go back at this time. Not to mention the cost of a hotel room is beyond what I'm willing to pay.

I definitely am not from Rochester. Nor would I ever want anybody to think I drive like a native Rochester-an does. And that begs bigger questions. Where will I grow old? Where will I watch my grandchildren grow? Where will I be buried and will there be anyone to visit my grave?

I guess, for now, I'll answer those from New England that I'm from there, too. And when I meet a KC native, I'll proudly announce that "That's where I'M from!"