Alaska
My father accepted a position with the IHS in Alaska; he starts in the spring. He, and my mother, were made for Alaska, its required self-sufficiency and independent way of life. They’ve never done well in a suburban setting, and never quite assimilated back to living in the Lower 48. I think they’ll be happier in Alaska. They’ve never stopped missing it with every fiber of their beings.
However, my relationship with Alaska is complicated. I was born there, my earliest memories are there. I was in love with the poppies and the rhubarb and the rosehips and the smells of cedar and pine and the way that the snow-capped mountains blended absolutely seamlessly with the clouds like Mount Olympus. Despite all of the absolutely heart-wrenching, horrible tragedies that occurred there, my brain managed to block all of it out except for the beautiful moments, the moments where I felt the most at peace.
I feel dishonest when I tell people that I am from The Last Frontier, as though I made it up in my head. Alaska is the closest place I have to a home. I just feel so disconnected. As the Coldplay lyric goes, I feel just like a tourist in the city in which I was born.
But, I’m not anymore connected to anywhere else. I’ve not lived in any one place for a longer stretch of time than another. I lived in Alaska, Maine, and Tennessee each for five or so years. Someone I know considers herself from Mississippi because that’s where her family is from; so where am I from? Alaska? Florida? Tennessee? North Carolina? Arizona? Alabama? Switzerland? Canada? Argentina? Angola?
I’m proud to have been raised nomadic, I am. I am proud to come from generations of nomads. Our nomadic way of life has caused us to value diversity and live outside of any kind of bubble. But, we aren’t a close knit family. We are nomadic because family is something from which we are perpetually running away.
After we left Alaska, I told myself that when I turned eighteen, I would move back, pick a house and never, ever leave it, not even to move down the street. Later, when I realized I was too far removed from Alaska, I just wanted to settle somewhere, anywhere. I believed my parents every time they promised we had finally landed someplace permanent. Every time.
I dislike my parents, I have no amount of love for my father, but I am happy for them, that they are returning to Alaska. However, it dredges up every memory of my parents telling me that we were moving yet again. That yes, they said that this was the home where they would retire, but they decided to move again. This next time will be permanent.
Every time, a reminder that I have no home.
