Just a ???? Kind of Girl

I recently visited New England, to see some dear friends and their newest family member. The winding old horse-buggy roads, the salty smell and gray-tinged skies accompanying brisk winds: I haven't spent a spring in Massachusetts in more than five years.

It's funny how transient we all are in this era. I flew to Boston to visit friends who were once my closest companions here in Jackson. Now, for the past almost-two years, they've been in Massachusetts... where, once upon a time, I lived.

Early one morning, while new baby and weary new parents, grandparents, and big sister slept, I woke up. Alert and alone, I decided to go for a walk around the picturesque village. I went for a brief jog, then got an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts (America might not run on Dunkin', but New England sure does), and shifted from my quick pace to a leisurely stroll, looking in the closed window-shops, winding my way through several little streets with old Colonial housing. Marblehead has homes and cemetaries dating back to the 1700s; American history rests there.

As I took in the homes and smells and atmosphere, I began imagining what my life might look like if I had stayed in New England. What if, instead of taking the job in Mississippi, I had accepted the teaching position I was offered in Massachusetts? I envisioned myself as a Boston girl, more accustomed to cold winters, nestled in a bigger city, a small enclave within the big city, perhaps. Dinners in Little Italy, more liberals than conservatives, fewer fried foods and more organic farms. I began to see myself as a New Englander. (Well, in the spring-summer-fall, at least.)

Then my mind drifted to my Midwestern roots, great lakes and big forests and ramshackle farms, fresh apple cider and hot donuts and friendly people. What if I had stayed in Michigan or Illinois? Could I be a Midwestern girl?

Then, as it has so often lately, my mind changed paths again, and took me to the places that have filled my radio and heart: Myanmar. China. Iraq. Afghanistan. Darfur. What if instead of my idle musings about being a Northern or Southern girl, I had been born a Sudanese girl? I have the luxury to dream of what region I could inhabit in this country... this country that I feel required and empowerd to criticize when necessary, but that I also deeply love. I know that I am blessed to have been born here - it was luck of the draw on my part, right? It wasn't me, it was my grandparents on my father's side, and more great-greats on my mother's side (with the Creek native strain excepted) who made difficult journeys to get here. I just started out here, and have had the privilege to wander and absorb.

I'm no better than someone born in a more hard-hit or politically-oppressed country. I'm no more deserving. Is it selfish to feel grateful for my privilege? Or silly to be feeling guilty, now, as I wander the little town?

The wind got a little colder, and I pulled my jacket a little tighter around myself. Selfish, guilty, okay, but don't dwell in those unproductive places, silly. It's a beautiful morning. I am who I am, where I am, when I am. Wherever I'm living, I can try to make the world a little better - and from where I am, I can do what I can to make it better elsewhere, too.

For now, I'm a Southern girl. I feel comfortable in this here, in this who, in this when. But who really knows where any of us will end up? I let myself back into my friends' cozy home, and waited for the beautiful family there to wake up so we could make some breakfast. While I waited, I started writing.