What defines “home” for you?  Do you define yourself by where you live? I never thought I did.  Until my family moved across the country. 

I was raised in the Midwest and never really defined myself in terms of local, heritage, culture or history.  Growing up in the Midwest it was rare to encounter someone who didn’t have the same life experiences.   The same heritage, culture and history.   We were all Midwesterners, all from the same local.   Much of our life was defined by the weather.  Specifically complaining about the weather.  Enduring scorching summers, surviving brutal winters, enjoying rare Indian summers, anticipating an early spring. 

Since moving to the South that part of my life is over.  There are quite a few northerners ( we’re no longer identified by where we are from in the northern half of the country, simply referred to as “northerners” now) here to reminisce over weather survival stories but the vibe is decidedly different.  The majority here haven’t experienced sub zero temperatures and blizzards. They have their own survival stories to share which we are not a part of. 

There is a different culture in the south.  A different local brings a different way of life, different heritage, culture and history of which my husband and I are not a part of.  Our kids will be.  It’s interesting to imagine how different our kids will be from us.  How their childhood will not consist of snowball fights, sledding, and ice skating.  Not trips to the lake, at least lakes like we are used to.  No trips to apple orchards in the fall.  No huge leave piles to jump in and burn in the fire, the smell of wood smoke in the crisp fall air.  

Since our move to the South, I have felt for the first time “homesick”.   Mind you we moved from the Midwest to escape a life consumed by weather.  To escape the sameness of everyone we encountered.  To experience newness; to give our children a broader perspective of the world that they couldn’t experience where we lived. 

During the first 2 years after our move we thrilled in the novelty.  We’d never heard Spanish spoken on a daily basis before.  Only at the Mexican Village where we went out to eat for enchilada night on Tuesdays.  We’d never seen the homeless begging at the intersections.  How urban!  It was exciting.  New.  At first it was fun when people pointed out our northern accents.  We felt special, unique.  For the first time ever we were different. 

But after 2 years the novelty started to fade.  The newness started to become more of isolation than an adventure.  Suddenly for the first time I felt lonely.  And I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly I was lonely for.  I found myself watching Ice Road Truckers because their voices sounded like “home”.  I found myself renting Fargo again and again and again.  I hated that movie when it first came out.  Felt insulted by their silly accents and I don’t care for violent movies in general but after 2 years, I couldn’t get enough of it.  That sound, that voice, was the voice of my people.  The sound of people who sounded like “home”.  I started reading again Louise Erdrich who is a Midwest author and all her settings are in the Midwest.  Where I grew up.  I needed that connection.  Of local, heritage, culture and history.  It was a shock to me. 

Now 4 years later we went back “home”.  And “home” is no longer there.  It was even more shocking how small life is where we’re from.  We no longer are of that local.  We are now at odds with our heritage, culture and history.   We all have heard the saying “you can never go home again” and I now understand what that means.  I never fit in with my local.  Nor really my heritage, culture and history, so it’s surprising to me that I miss it.  I think what I really miss is a feeling of “home”.  Of belonging even when I fought that affiliation.  I’m between two locals, heritages, cultures and histories.  Not wanting the old but not ready to embrace the new. 

Maybe the trick is to take away only the good.  To have lutefisk with our queso.  To watch a double feature of Fargo and Selena.  To share our tall weather survival tales with our children while sipping margaritas on the beach in November.  It’s a tough task, but I think I’m up for it.