I don’t have a place that I call home. My mom has a place she is from and my dad too, but we, their children have none. My father was a member of Uncle Sam’s Tribe of wandering nomads and my mother became the wandering wife. The State and War Department say that I was born at a chemical weapons plant. Topographically, part of the Appalachian range and Tennessee River. The Paleo-Indians called it Redstone Point. The Euro-american settlers call it Redstone Arsenal. It was a place where homesteads and large plantations dominated; and slaves, tenants and sharecroppers worked the land. But, this is not where I am from.
Six months later, as a tribe we went to the Black Forest, along the Neckar river. The locals called it the Stuttgart Cauldron. We learned to eat Käsespätzle, Brotchen, and Lebkuchen. Here my role was schulkinder, but I don’t remember much. By the time we left, I did not speak American, but some other non useful gibberish. But, this is not where I am from.
Maybe I am from another one of Uncle Sam’s tribal lands? Next, we arrived in the Tularosa basin, where Trinity was detonated and the Space Shuttle would land. There were rattlesnakes that roamed in the cemeteries filled with ancient Nike Hercules. Repeat after me my father would say, “ 415 Pershing Drive’’. It was here, I learned American. Where I started ballet, tap dancing, and memorized the words to Yankee Doodle Dandy. It was here that I learned tribes don’t always stick together. It was the place where my mom left us for the first time and went back to where she was from. She was tired of the nomadic life. But, this is not where I am from.
Then, our tribe migrated to the Franklin Mountain Range near the Rio Grande. I remember this place more than anywhere. A daily view of the majestic Sugarloaf Mountains, where I buried my first hamster in the hills. Spending Independence Day at the Chamizal. Summer nights sitting outside watching “Viva! El Paso,” in the canyon. Trips to Ruidoso downs, Carlsbad caverns, and mountaineering in Hueco Tanks. It was also the place where dishes were being broken and loud voices went on shouting late into the night. Between the hayrides, horseback riding, and rolling down the white sand dunes, my father almost died from driving his motorcycle drunk. Eventually, the sedentary life would trigger the great tribal schism. After, I started skipping school, catching buses to Paso Del Norte Bridge and walking my way into J-town to drink fluids out of test tubes with my friends. I crashed my mom’s car and eventually, my amigos and I would create our own tribe. As the Spanish explorers did, we hitchhiked westward, to the Pacific where we stayed and slept off Grape Street under the 5 South. That wouldn’t last long, we all eventually retreated after two weeks. But, this is not where I am from.
The tribal schism forced me to choose a side, and the stir continued to grow inside me. I would leave from here too. Traveling far away to the roaring Cape Fear and the Atlantic Coast. It would be a lie to say that, it’s where I am from because that stop was temporary. I left from there, to here, and there again at least six more times over the years up to now. I am not really from anywhere, but from here, there and everywhere. Where I’m from everything is in transition. It is a place where you grow comfortable with uncertainty and have the energy and courage to start over. A place where your best friends are adaptability and resilience and a place where you learn to be present, without attachment, and live by universal laws.
