“Where Are You From?” A Question with Many Answers

When we moved from Ohio to Michigan, we said we were from Ohio.

When we moved from Michigan to Arizona, we said we were from Michigan.

When we began the drive back to the Midwest after selling our home in Arizona, we told people we were from Phoenix - “The Valley.” We did this partly because Arizona had been our most recent home, and partly to explain why we were wearing beanies and winter jackets in Moab, UT and Breckinridge, CO while the locals sported T-shirts and wind burned smiling faces.

When Bae asked me to walk just a little bit further on a snowy hike in Breck, an outdoor activity we took to give our dog and ourselves a break from the car, I yelled “My people are from an island in the Mediterranean!! I am not built for this!!” And while I have yet to actually visit Sicily myself, I claim it when it makes sense.

Where am I from? I’m from everywhere I’ve ever lived.

I’m a little bit from every city whose cafes I’ve sat and written in.

Every souvenir magnet on my fridge.

All the local hole-in-the-wall spots and phrases I’ve collected in my brain.

All the annual festivals.

Every foot of holiday lights I’ve wrapped around front bushes and porch railings and Christmas trees, both real and fake.

If you ask me in passing where I’m from, I’ll probably answer with the city in which I’ve most recently held a renter’s insurance policy.

If you ask with the intention of knowing, I’ll have much, much more to say.

Yours meandering,

Emily Rose // Miss Magnolia