So, What’s Georgia Like?

My simple little life has become complicated in a most unexpected way. I don’t know where I’m from. This phenomenon appears in two distinct ways.

The first: a friend will ask me how I like Georgia. It seems like a perfectly rational question. I moved eighteen days ago. It would seem reasonable that I have some sort of impression of the place by now. Unfortunately, I really don’t know much more about it than I did before I moved.

Let me explain. I flew to Atlanta on July 4. The movers unloaded my stuff on the fifth. I spent the next couple days unpacking. I went into my new office on the ninth and tenth, then flew out on the evening of the tenth. That really doesn’t seem like sufficient experience on which to base an impression. I’ll be flying back on July 27th. Maybe by the end of the month I’ll be able to let you know what I think.

The second scenario: someone asks me where I’m from. Since I’m in training with 300 outgoing people, none of whom really know each other, this happens a lot. I clearly identify with Maine as the place I grew up. That’s who I am. But there are also those eleven years I spent in Utah. And the last three and a half in California. Not to mention my most recent week in Georgia. I think I’m beginning to have an identity crisis.

Perhaps I’m overcomplicating something that’s altogether common. But it doesn’t feel right yet to tell people that I’m from Georgia. And to tell them I’m from Maine isn’t the whole truth anymore either. To answer with either Utah or California would seem to be leaving out crucial elements of the story.

My solution? I make a judgment call. If it’s exceptionally loud, I’m exceptionally tired or just feeling lazy, I’ve been offering that my first rotation’s in Georgia. If I have time, or the person asking seems genuinely interested, I’ve been opting for, “That’s a complicated question . . .” That’s a phrase I’ve been using a lot lately.