By the time I was sixteen years old, I had lived in thirty-one different places and would soon spend the summer in a thirty-second place. There is one surprising result of a peripatetic childhood: it makes first dates difficult.
The stock question for first dates is “Where are you from?” An inability to answer that question to your date's satisfaction pretty much derails the date.
Most people have trouble comprehending the words, “We moved a lot.” (That sentence is in English, right?) They repeat the question relentlessly as if I haven’t answered.
On first dates, there seemed to be no way to change the subject. He’d persist, asking where I was born, and would look puzzled that I didn't know anything about that town. Then he’d ask where I went to high school and look painfully confused when I named three places. I would tell him where I went to college, and then he’d say… you guessed it… "But where are you from?"
An outright lie invariably backfired. Twice I said, “I’m from here,” and each time the response was, “Me, too! Which high school did you go to?” The clumsy back-pedaling might have been funny if I hadn’t been the woman on the bike. (Once, I named my dad's hometown—a place I've never visited— but that Jewish-geography-thing caused me trouble.)
Sometimes, I’d try to beat my date to the punch by asking where he was from and trying to grill him about the place and his childhood memories. Apparently my interrogation technique was poor, because it never worked. He would dodge answering my questions by asking me The Dreaded Question.
I seriously considered making up a town. Since I'm a poor liar, I figured it wouldn't help me—and why did I need help? My answer seemed perfectly valid to me: we moved a lot. Simple.
People’s obsession with the question is still bewildering. If you tell me that you are from a particular place, what have I learned about you? When I meet people, I want to know what they like to do, what books they've read, how close they are to friends and family, and what they are passionate about. I seldom ask anyone, "Where are you from?" Honestly, if you don’t have an exotic accent, I won't even think to ask.
One time, though, I did get a hint at the importance of being from somewhere. After college, I lived in one place for seven years. I left briefly, and when I returned, I was stunned at my reaction to streets and buildings and parks. Each held a different memory. Everywhere I looked, my physical eyes could almost see ghostly images of past events.
Maybe that’s what it feels like to be from somewhere. But I still don’t know why anyone else would care where I am from.
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| Photo taken in Katzrin, where I immediately felt at home |
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