Where Haven’t I Been Yet?
You can look at me and say, “Ok this is a middle aged man who grew up in Nebraska and never left to travel until he was 52. You would be so wrong. (I have yet to visit the state.)
You wouldn’t be able to tell where I come from by peeking in my refrigerator, because the food I eat is as eclectic as the small knick knacks I have around the house.
I could surprise you with how well I can swear in so many languages.
I use chopsticks well, I eat adobo like a Filipino with a fork in my left and a spoon in my right.
Folding things is done in the Japanese mode of corner first.
Trying to question me about where I went to school would only confuse you. I was educated on three continents.
I wasn’t born in the country my parents were. I suppose people are upset I don’t speak the language of my birth, but with whom would I speak it? So my passport tells an improbable tale of birth, country of origin and address of emergency contact.
And then comes the tricky part, the question I try to avoid because it just doesn’t apply: “Where do you call home?”
I could say Alaska or Guam as they were the longest places I’ve lived outside of Tokyo, but then I would be ignoring all my life forging experiences in Germany, France, the UK and all the little places for short times I lived.
You ask me where I come from. Perhaps you should ask me, “where haven’t I been yet?”