Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?
It all came to a head the other day, see. I had my passport out on my desk for one reason or another. Besides the awful, lumpy photo that somehow showed me as a fat redhead (ah, the magic of passport photos), the main identifying feature that's listed is my birthplace of Minneapolis, Minnesota.Minnesota - would I recognize anything if I returned? I must have been nine years old the last time I visited, and one or two when last I lived there. My hometown is Rockford, Illinois. But again, it's not. It's Los Gatos, California. But that was just a stopover. I'm from a village outside Chicago, that you haven't heard of. Or ask anyone, and they'll say I'm from Los Angeles. Need I mention that lost year in New Orleans? No, I don't live there any more.
Let me start over.
My name is Leah, and I'm from San Francisco. I've spent most of the few years in my adult life here, and that is more than enough to qualify it as the place I call home. I'm no native daughter of the golden west, but neither am I a denizon of the prairies. Maybe it's time I finally claimed a hometown. Let's mark it down as "America."
And now, I'm going to take a long walk around the neighborhood.
Labels: memoir
1 Comments:
you are sooooo entertaining-much better than the boring travel writers employed by the LA TIMES
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