‘It’s complicated.”
That’s what I want to explain every time someone asks, “Where are you from?” It has been the abiding question in my life, revealing more interest in my origins than in my name, employment, character or marital status. No matter where I go, I look, sound and/or act like someone “from away.”
My roots are many. The British branch is so old, there is a whiff of a reference to the family from the fifth century. One Whittlesey immigrated to Connecticut in the mid-1600s, married the governor’s daughter and sired a large family, some of whom eventually moved westward and took over Iowa, or so it seemed. Another branch, Koenig by name, immigrated from Germany to New York City in the 1800s. Occupation: Kitchen servant or professional chef, depending upon who was telling the story and what kind of impression they wanted to make. Still another branch were landed gentry in the Deep South, their own origins French.
I had an Irish grandfather with schizophrenia whom I never knew, and a tiny, adorable born-and-bred Southern lady great-grandmother who thought “damn Yankees” was one word until she was 12 years old. My tall, dark Catholic father was a naval officer from Illinois; my tall, blond Protestant mother was a California beach girl.
It’s a solid recipe for the all-American type that didn’t take. My husband opined that I looked Eastern European or Irish – depending on what, I have no idea.
Confusing the impression is a very slight accent resulting from a childhood hearing defect, and the well-intentioned efforts of a speech therapist to improve my elocution. Adding to the fun is an occasional “y’all,” a turn of speech I picked up from time down South.
My family never stayed in one place long, which meant I heard the “where are you from?” question a lot. I, too, was constantly on the move after I took off on my own.
Briefly, in my 20s, I lived in Maine, intending to stay, then married a man in the military and moved several times more. I gave birth to one child in the Northwest, another in the Southeast. When I separated from my husband 22 years ago and returned here for good, I was determined to become a recognizable Mainer.
Paraphrasing the delightful Maine axiom, I now know “You can’t get here from there.” I can dress myself from head to toe in L.L. Bean, and people will ask if I am from New York City. I can’t drop an “R” to save my life, and the old-fashioned Southern manners I inherited, coupled with my intimate knowledge of certain military expressions – “FUBAR,” anyone? – both confound and amuse my husband.
“Where are you from?” people ask. Smiling, I now reply, “I was a Navy brat and an Army spouse, and who knows what the future will bring – but for now, I’m from Maine.”
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