Well hi there, Blog!
What a month. There's been so much afoot these last few weeks that, now that I finally get a moment to write, the idea of meticulously recording it all is a bit daunting. Which is mildly frustrating, seeing as how I constantly wander about composing blog entries in my head -- noticing something in the train, for example, and imagining precisely how I'll capture it in writing, just as soon as my itchy fingers can get to a keyboard -- and then by the time I finally, ceremoniously take a seat in front of my expectant little computer... the "service brain soon" light is on. I can almost feel the tumbleweeds bouncing lazily along the short distance between my ears.
But I've gotta begin somewhere, so why not at the beginning?
May got started with a spontaneous leap aboard a plane on the 1st, after my Mom called with the news that the mysterious, grapefruit-sized lump on her ovary was to be removed that day. Thank God it turned out to be nothing more than that! A mysterious, removable, if curiously large, lump. The surgery itself went off without a hitch; however, it was the parade of complications during recovery that sent the two of us on a zoomy ride through the nauseous, sometimes-inflatable world of Abdominal Surgery Recovery.
For the full story -- or at least, for the hasty blog entries shot off during each brief reprieve between adventures, when we'd look wild-eyed at each other and gasp the soon-to-be infamous words, "The worst seems to be over!" -- check out Mom's blog to the right.
For the rest of the story, suffice to say that, no matter the circumstances, it's always really hard to leave Mom again. I don't know how our family does it, remaining so close while so geographically far away. We become barnacles during those visits. In Pittsburgh, for example, I slept on a very fluffy air mattress on Mom's bedroom floor, cozy as could be; yet as if that weren't slumber-party enough, one morning while waiting for everyone else to get up and around, I just got up and clambered into Mom's bed so that we could whisper and giggle together without disturbing the rest of the household.
My aunt Sherry doesn't quite know what to make of this. She's from such a huge, close-knit extended family, who all grew up together and continue to live in the same town, that she has quite the opposite problem and sometimes needs to come up for air. Whereas I've never really had the opportunity to take my family for granted: we've been widely scattered since I was twelve. What's more, my immediately family are the only form of "home base" I've ever known. I counted once, and I've changed addresses no less than 22 times in my 27 years. Therefore my home has never been a geographical location: instead, I derive my entire sense of belonging from our family's consistent, open love and support for each other. Even the fact that everyone lives so far apart only seems to reinforce this bond.
Which brings me to a topic that I've been musing over off and on ever since I got to Germany: that is, the whole question of geographical belonging.
I used to have such difficulty with that everyday question, "Where are you from?" because I had never spent more than two or three years in one location, and what on earth was I supposed to say? Even the Air Force Base where I was born doesn't exist any more. In recent years, I've responded with "Arizona," at first for convenience's sake -- and because, really, who actually cares? -- and later because, hey, I did spent 13 years there.
But you know, I've slowly realized that saying I'm from Arizona really is just a convenient answer to a common question. Which is all anyone is looking for when they ask, anyway. But do I really think I'm Arizonan? What does it mean to be "from" somewhere? It seems this question usually comes with a particular set of assumptions, like, you have roots there, maybe were born there, cheer for a local team, have an address where the family gathers, etc. "I'm from Brooklyn." "I'm from Michigan." Not that it's so atypical of us Americans to hop all over the place, but regardless of current geographical distance or frequency of visits -- or indeed, level of affection for the place! -- most people at least have a town they'd identify as being "back home".
Arizona isn't that, though. I thought it might be; but now that I'm away, I look back at it fondly, but I realize I don't -- and maybe never did -- actually belong there. I've never had roots in Arizona; none of my family live there any more; I have no plans to return. I don't even miss it.
Maybe you can humor me a moment while I attempt to sort out what Arizona does mean to me. I absolutely have a soft spot for it. Tucson was the longest I've ever stayed in one town, and still whenever I hear it mentioned in the news or in song lyrics, I get all excited because, hey, I know that place! And you can't spend so much time in one region without it leaving some sort of mark on you. I love Mexican food, think saguaro cacti are cool, and am definitely unused to the oppressive dark of northern-latitude winters.
And yet I realize, looking back, that a lot of those ways in which the place itself seemed to have impacted my identity are surprisingly superficial. Food? Fondness for a cactus? Neustadt left me with wine and fondness for the grapevine -- and lord knows the growth and self-discovery that occurred there were no less than that which occurred in Arizona. Of course I spent 13 times as long in Arizona as I did in Neustadt; but honestly, is sheer volume of time the most deciding element in the role a place takes in shaping your identity? Looking back, I never really became any more a part of the community in Tucson than I did in Neustadt (especially considering I spent the first half of my stay in Tucson simply enduring the place and plotting escape!). I could certainly tell you the good places to eat and when the Street Fair took place; but never once did I watch Wildcat football or care anything for local politics. I never even learned Spanish (to my detriment). Shauna and I spent four wonderful years in a community choir, and yet whenever we'd travel on our spring tour to some faraway destination, the idea that we were supposed to "represent" Tucson just didn't apply to me. Those other, blond singers who had gone to such-and-such an elementary school and had grandparents in Green Valley, they were Tucson. I'd only just arrived. Even up until the moment I left, people who actually were from Tucson were telling me I had an accent. Maybe that's why I'm not shocked to discover that, despite the thrill of familiarity that comes with seeing a desert landscape, it's no longer accompanied by a sense of belonging. I have lived in lots of places to which I still feel that sense of connection, even propriety; yet I notice that Arizona once again feels like someone else's community. Familiar, to be sure. Loved, of course. Home? Well... not really, no.
Which is odd, since I sure lay a lot of personal claim on it over here. You'd think I was a cowboy from Bisbee. I get a kick out of tossing its exoticism around in discussions with my German friends ("You think this is hot?" or "That ain't Mexican food!") and point proudly to its familiar rectangle shape on the U.S. map. And to an extent this is true: I'm certainly not from New England, the South, or the Midwest. Arizona is my largest reference point in the States, so I play it up as actually being who I am.
But I'm sheepish to admit that this is mostly just out of a need to pick someplace to be "from". Germans are fiercely loyal to their own regional origins: being a Bavarian or Saxon or Hamburger or Rheinlander comprises an inseparable piece of their identity. Against that, I feel more or less compelled to at least say there's a place out there that is my own home. Yet this identification of myself as Arizonan is purely relative: this is the place they know, so that's the place I know. That was the last place I was before I came here. It needs this backdrop of comparison to make it mine.
(Which of course doesn't make me any less excited to show it to Bert when we travel there at Christmas. Whatever its current role, it's still where I spent many years of the most recent last chapter of my life. Plus I gotta get some decent Mexican food!)
All this does make me feel a bit homeless. Which is nothing new, and nothing automatically good or bad. My current setting simply throws it into relief, and so I get more occupied with the fact than I have before. On good days, I feel enriched and free, to hell with Tonio Kröger's bourgeois disrespect for "Zigeuner im grünen Wagen." On bad days, I feel floating and anchorless.
On most days, I just don't give a rat's ass. Wherever my family is, I am home.
