Where Are You From?

I read this article today.  Made me smile.  Some of you will understand.

"George is a sandy-haired Texan who drives an immodest truck and wears blunt-toed boots. He writes country music songs on the weekends and is the world’s shakiest Republican. He’s a 6-foot-4-inch pile of quick wit, fracking concerns and contradiction.

George has been my close friend and co-worker for two decades. We used to hang out, but he now lives in the country with four dogs in a house that looks like it was built for a rapper. Fun fact: My country folk never used the word “poolscape.”

In the last 20 years, I estimate George and I have had 143,000 arguments. Give or take four. We can argue about anything. Beatles albums. Dr Pepper. Overrated fruit. Mechanical hearts vs. God’s will. Gay marriage. Neil Young. Neil Young on gay marriage. Haircut intervals. “Fake British.” And whether or not dark powers undergird certain street magic.

All of these are subjective matters, yet when George and I sling words, we speak ex cathedra. It’s fun and light.

But there’s one bit of needling I do that gets under George’s skin.

I insist he is a “yankee. From Chicago.” When I say this, his eyes narrow, his face flushes, and he spits back, “I was born in San Antonio. More Texan than you’ll ever be. You’re from Mississippi.”

I was born in Fort Worth. And George grew up in Wheaton, Ill.

But George has a point. I did live in Mississippi. And he was born in San Antonio. But because there’s rarely one answer to “Where are you from?” it makes for endless, unwinnable debate.

I remember when I signed up for Facebook in the 1930s, I paused over the field of “Hometown.” You mean, where I gnawed myself free of the umbilical cord, or where I graduated from high school? Where my people failed for generations, or where my collection notices are sent? It confused me. So I panicked and put “Bethlehem” because of Jesus and Michael Andretti.

According to a Pew survey of Americans who have moved at least once, 26 percent say “home” is the place they were born and raised. Twenty-two percent said it’s their current residence. Eighteen percent said it’s where they’ve racked up the most years. Fifteen percent say it’s the place of family roots. Four percent say it’s where they went to high school. And only 1 percent said Bethlehem and hung up.

Americans move more than people in other countries. We’re economic wanderers, and since D-FW is chockablock with people from somewhere else, standardizing the criterion for “home” would be a fruitless endeavor. But since I think fruit is overrated, I don’t mind attempting it.

According to me, based on nothing and whim, “home” is defined as whatever scores you most points with the asker. If I’m in Texas, I say Texas. If I’m in Mississippi, I say Mississippi. If I’m in Fort Worth, I say Fort Worth. If I’m in a squad car, I say nothing. In all other neutral settings, I say Dallas. Or D-town to be annoying.

What’s more interesting than the definition of home is the importance we place on it. Where someone is from shouldn’t matter if we like them at face value. The vestigial bias toward identifying someone by birthplace is silly.

My mother is someone who still divides people along the Mason-Dixon Line. Growing up in the Deep South left her with permanent side-eye toward those from “up north.”

When she found out the girl I was dating was from New York City, she shifted into the passive-aggressiveness of a proper Southern belle.

“Bless her heart,” mom said.

“What does it matter?” I said. “She moved out of there when she was 3.”

“I’m just thinking of you. I want you to have a woman who will cook your vegetables the right way.” This meant cook them with bacon until they’re mush, then add a stick of butter.

But I’ve judged according to birthplace too. Former Cowboy defensive great Randy White is about as tobacco-spitting, g-dropping, pig-kicking, four-wheeling as it gets. Yet, when I found out he was born in Pittsburgh and not Longview, I saw him differently. Why? He’s still dropping his g’s, hauling fifth wheels, and navigating more dresser top spit cups than I ever will. Culturally, he’s a Texan.

Sandy-haired George is one of the funniest, kindest, most salt-of-the-earth people I’ve known. I wouldn’t care where he’s from. And I hope it wouldn’t bug him if he’d been born in Minneapolis instead of the log cabin in the Hill Country, which is his claim. He still grew up to be a fine man and a great friend.

Pretty good for an Illinois boy." - Gordon Keith