Where Are You From?

So, you're at college for the first time, just chilling on campus, getting to know people when someone asks THE QUESTION.  THE DREADED QUESTION.  The question that you can't thoroughly answer in the same two or three words everyone else in hearing distance can.  You want to change the subject, but you have a feeling that won't fly.  Oh, why did they have to ask it?

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from"

Oh, four simple words that any normal American can answer succinctly.   Oh, maybe they'll have to take a few extra sentences to explain where it is in relation to other major cities, but you...there is no escape.  There is no good way to answer this one in short form.  To answer in short form is to tell a partial truth, so you make your decision.

"Union Grove, Wisconsin."

Your mouth for some reason gives this person the half-truth.  Yet it is completely true.  You are from Union Grove, Wisconsin, and right now, you don't have time to explain all about Japan.  You're not in the mood, so you just claim to be from America and explain you live about an hour from Milwaukee.  Case closed.

A few hours later, you're hanging out with other people, just getting to know them, when someone else turns to you.

"Where are you from?"

This time, though, you feel a bit more relaxed.  Maybe you don't care about this person oodling over you in awe as they discover the full truth.

"Japan."

It's still not the full truth, though, you think as you start answering the inevitable questions (including possibly the one about if you speak Chinese).  You are a proud Wisconsinite, supporter of the Green Bay Packers and the Milwaukee Brewers.  You don't mind being called a Cheesehead and believe dairy farms are normal, everyday sights.  You hate the Illinois and Minnesota teams with an instinctive passion, and Michigan stinks pretty bad too.

Finally, the whole story spills out.  "Well, really in America, I'm from Union Grove, Wisconsin.  It's about an hour away from Milwaukee...No, I live about six hundred miles north of Tokyo...Okinawa is not really Japan...Okay, cool, your uncle was in the navy...Well, actually I was born in Iron Mountain, Michigan.  Hey, who wants to play Foosball?"

Ugh...THE EXPLANATION.  I haven't met a single missionary kid who likes giving THE EXPLANATION over and over.  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a missionary kid meeting someone must be in want of a place to call "home."

"Home" is such a strange term.  The country our parents hail from is deemed our "home country," even if we have spent less than half our childhoods there.  We talk about "going home" for furlough, but when the time is over and we head back to the passport country, we also call this "going home."  Do not be surprised to hear an MK call a hotel room or the house where he is spending the night "home."  We are a group who has lost what that term means, other than a place we spend the night not strapped in by seat belts.  In short, everything but planes, cars, boats, buses, and trains is "home."

Examples of "not home"

A missionary kid is someone destined to feel like a foreigner no matter which country he is in.  Even if he lives in another English speaking country (the United Kingdom, for example), his family constantly speaks of family back in America.  Even if he exterminates all traces of his American accent and assimilates to the British culture, he will still find himself with some obligations to America.

WE ARE SORRY WE MADE THAT DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE!

American relatives will question why he has that accent, and if he can just turn it off while he's in America.  Would you ask your cousin from Texas to lose the accent while visiting you in Minnesota?  The MK will be told he is a 'MERICAN!  Yet he feels British, but because of American relatives, he can never fully be one.

MKs in countries where their native languages and/or skin colors don't match face even greater difficulties.  It is more than adapting an accent.  An MK in Germany will go to public school and speak German all day, but at home that night, she must lay aside her German language to speak English among her family.  She may look perfectly German on the outside, allowing her to physically blend in, but culturally she does not fit in here.  After returning to America for college, she discovers that this "homeland" is foreign to her.  She marries a missionary guy and they go and serve in Germany together, but they are still Americans, speaking English at home to their children.
Or perhaps, jump over to Peru, where an MK of Hispanic descent is home schooled and, for whatever reason speaks little Spanish (Okay, highly unlikely situation, but I'm trying to cover a lot of geographical regions here.).  Perhaps she can once again blend in physically, but as soon as she struggles to communicate, she is discovered to be an American.  Yet returning to America, she sometimes finds little in common with her "countrymen" and doesn't know where to go.  Yet she remains in America after graduation because this place just seems more "home" than Peru ever did, even though neither is ideal.

Now, let's take it to the Philippines.  Yes, let's do this about a red haired, green eyed MK in the Philippines.  He will never look like them, no matter how perfect his accent is, no matter how Filipino he acts--he will always stick out like a sore thumb.  Whether he chooses to settle in America or the Philippines or even a third country as an adult, he will always be a foreigner.

My passport says I am an American, and I am glad to be one.  But I am not an American.  But neither am I Japanese.  Where am I from?  What is the right answer?  Why can't this be simple?  I just want to say where I'm from without feeling like I'm lying or giving the longest answer in the history of mankind.

Perhaps this is the reason why the book "You Know You're an MK When..." starts out with, "You can't answer the question, 'Where are you from?'" and ends at number five hundred with, "Heaven is the only place you can call home."

MKs are a homeless, but not house-less, lot.  And maybe, just maybe, that's why we deem every place and no place as "home."

Confessions of a Former Judsonite

So, basically, here's how it used to go:  You show up on Northland campus as a freshman, and next thing you know, you're learning about these things called societies, and how every non-married student needs to join one.  So, you peruse the list and talk with your roommates, and here was your rundown:
Carey/Carmichael--almost all jocks
Brainerd/Slessor--tough initiations
Spurgeon--the preacher boys and not-actually-preacher girls
Judson--the hicks
Dreisbach--don't really do anything
Champlin--also really don't do anything

And, of course, naturally, every single member of every society wants you to join their society...except for Dreisbach and Champlin, almost all of whom were in their societies due to being last in line.  They were kind of like the Aquaman and Hawkeye societies of Northland.  The ones where you think there might be a purpose here somewhere, but you can't see entirely what it is, so you just kind of go through life accepting their existence because getting rid of them would just make life seem incomplete.

So, anyway, I basically threw Dreisbach and Champlin out the window and narrowed my societies down to Judson and Carmichael:  the hicks or the jock girls.

I only made it to one society rush activity, and it was the Judson one.  I worked during the Carmichael one.  So, my entire experience of being rushed by a society involved running around campus on a scavenger hunt, getting soaked because it was pouring rain.

List of ways to make Katrina miserable #13:  Go out in the rain.

 I HATE GOING OUT IN THE RAIN!  And, oddly enough, I had the best time of my life doing this, and I was promised a future of something about bonfires and camouflage and guys playing Bloodball if I joined.

I was kind of trying to eat my cold ice cream and cookie sandwich after being out in the cold rain, so I didn't retain much.

So then came society rush chapel, and I politely sat through all the candle singing/canoe falling and skits and videos until finally came the Judson one.

The girl officers came out and said, "Hey, we're the Judson girl officers, and we hope you join Judson" and left the stage.

In that moment, I sold my soul to Carmichael.

Then some guys appeared on stage pretending to be vending machines or something like that.  I was too busy laughing to remember.

Then suddenly, a guy crashed through the ceiling, grabbed the donuts, and I died laughing.

Suddenly, I couldn't wait to be directed to the table.  My choice was made.  As soon as they gave us freshmen the "go" I was out of my bleacher, shoving my way to the front of the crowd.  I had to do it.

I had to get my name on that paper.  Something about the promises of duct tape and donuts lured me to have my name be written down on that sheet of paper.

I, the girl who had never shot a gun in her life, who could barely climb a tree without a lot of help, joined Judson.

This:  absolutely out of the question for Katrina.  An oddly enough, Judson could probably have talked me into it.

That first night, I began to question what I was doing here.  I mean, I got through the Keys Partner thing just fine (I was one of those people who ended up with great Keys Partners.)  But then came the "stand on a table and initiate yourself by telling a random fact" part.  Favorite guns?  Four wheeling?  What was this strange language?  I mean, I knew this was the hick society, but...why are the girls doing this to?  Um...I don't have a single strong hick characteristic about me.  Okay, I watch The Red Green Show.  Oh, good, we finally connect on something.

Ooh, bonfire.  This is nice.  Hotdogs and marshmallows and donuts.  I could get used to this.

Foot washing chapel?  What in the world...

BEST CHAPEL EVER!

Soon, it began to absorb me.  Okay, I'll come to the skeet shoot.  Uh...which gauge should I use?  Why do I have to use the bigger number?  So that's what happens when you don't hold it tight in your shoulder...  Okay, not doing that again.

Uh...awesome...a mud pit.  I hate getting messy.  Why am I cheering for this?

Wait, what do you mean because I'm a girl, I'm not allowed to catch the greased pig?  I should SO be allowed to do this too. I AM A JUDSON GIRL!

No, I have absolutely no dancing skills at all.

Of course I'll line dance to introduce the society.

Wait, who banned the line dancing?  That was so much fun.  Now I'm just going to have to stand up there and clap while the guys play some bluegrass song I've never heard of.

I LOVE MY SOCIETY!

"Girls can play Bloodball, as long as they are off campus."

Best sport in the history of ever.  Well, aside from the sprained necks, broken collarbones, and sundry other maladies it's caused.

Hey, let's borrow the Hoffman brothers' truck to go pick up condiments for the flag football tailgate party.

Yeah, and by the way, there's not as much food as there used to be because we had to pay eighty dollars for that broken ceiling tile.

DONUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hm...this Judson thing is quite fun.  Nominate me for vice president.

Or activities' director.  That works too.  And no one else is running?  Perfect.

This will be the best year of society ever!

Thanks to you guys, I got a knife.  I love my knife (which is currently misplaced, which saddens me greatly).

More skeet shooting!!!!

"Do you realize how talented Judson actually is?  I mean, virtually every musical instrument out there can be played by someone in our society.  Plus, look, like almost the entire cast of this play is Judson."

Let's make gigantic Valentine's Day cards for the guy officers.  I'm sure they'll love this.

Wait...they're getting rid of society?  But WHY?  I love my society.

I cried for two days after that announcement.  Society had basically become my life, and I hated to see it go.  Judson had turned a girl who knew next to nothing about life out of the city into someone that actually enjoyed shooting guns and listening to bluegrass and roasting donuts over the fire.

And I therefore now find myself in some odd place of being able to say that in college I was considered both nerd and hick.  Talk about a weird place to be.  Every three weeks, you find yourself screaming and doing hick things and then going to lunch and discussing computers and the problems with plays.

But I guess that just made me a well rounded college student instead of just sitting over at some jock table discussing basketball all day.  Or something like that.

I Am Not a Hurricane

So, it's been, like, over eight years since I got tired of the routine, but I'll repeat it for you here:
"What's your name?"
"Katrina."
"Oh, like the hurricane!" *include corny laughter if you're a male who tends to make these comments

Oh, yeah, because you know, I was only born fifteen years, one month, and twenty-two days before that thing hit New Orleans--that's CLEARLY the only thing my name refers to.

You know, once upon a time I wanted to visit New Orleans...now, I really, really couldn't care less all because of a naming system.

I LOVE the times when someone actually says, "Oh, I know someone by that name," because it reminds me that there are other people named Katrina out there.  Other girls named Katrina with the same spelling as me.  I mean, it's not the most common name out there, and it's only been declining over the past eight years because people can't get over a storm with the same name.  I mean, some names like Andrew don't even ever take a hit, and then you get one hurricane that destroys a town, and next thing you know your name is falling out of the popularity.  I mean, even the name Miley hasn't fallen as fast as I wish it would.  (Although, I'm expecting it to take a brutal hit in the popularity ranks after recent events.)

I mean, just once, just once, though, could I go three months without meeting someone who refers to the hurricane.  It has been eight years, people.  I mean...

"Okay...that was weird..."

What?  What weirdness do you speak of?

Oh, yeah, the name ranking rant.  By the way, I'm a name nerd.  It was the second nerd type I ever admitted to being out loud, although I technically originally referred to myself as a "Pirates of the Caribbean dork," but I think that's just because I didn't want to call myself a nerd at the time.  I definitely was a name nerd before a PotC nerd anyway.

Speaking of which, yes, Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day to those who are reading this on September 19.

Back to the subject of my name, however.  I mean, I like it, I'm very attached to it, I'm not going to change it, but...I could do without hurricane references.

I'm completely fine with me telling you your cousin/niece/granddaughter is named Katrina, though.

But just once could I get a more nerdy reference?  I mean, not even my friends who love the Inheritance Cycle even bothered to tell me my name was in the series.  I had to find this out for myself!  I probably would have read them six months earlier if I'd known my name was in them!  I mean, thanks for the surprise, but I would have loved if you'd told me you'd seen my name in the book.  Authors don't normally choose it for characters.

*random critcism; "lalala, I can't HEAR you!"

I mean, the irony of the fact authors don't really use it is the fact that I am indeed named after a literary character.  When I tell people who it is, I get various reactions from, "What story?" to "That's creepy" to "Johnny Depp is weird."  I agree with only the middle statement.

WARNING:  Impending Talk Like a Pirate Day festivities may cause Katrina to reference her favorite show continuously.

Also, I have no understanding of this "weird" of which you speak.  Absolutely none at all.

Okay, so, yes, I was named after Katrina Van Tassel from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  No, not the Johnny Depp one.  That was made nine years after I was born.  If I was named after the Johnny Depp film that came out the year I was born, I wouldn't have been named until five months after I was born when Edward Scissorhands came out.  So, no, my name has nothing to do with Johnny Depp--it's just a happy coincidence I would up with.

Because, you know, every adaptation of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow you see is based on a short story written by Washington Irving in 1820, and there are characters named Katrina Van Tassel and Ichabod Crane and Bram Bones in it, and there is a Headless Horseman, but the closest thing you're going to find to the original without actually reading it is to watch the Disney adaptation.

Warning:  Not suitable for small children.  Unless you have a couch to hide behind.  Because that couch is the only protection you have against an image on the screen.  The couch is just as effective as the covered bridge.

So, yeah, basically I grew up, repeatedly scaring the pants off myself watching Disney's adaptation all because my name is Katrina, and I was named after the character.  I'd say that's a fair exchange, though.  I mean, in the whole scheme of things, I get a name with literary merit.  And I guess it's a bit of a blessing that not everyone immediately knows where it comes from.  I guess that's why I can still enjoy a name from a book even twenty-three years after the fact.

So, thanks, Dad, you did a great job naming me.  And Mom too on picking the middle name Paige out of the baby name book in the middle of the night.

But, really, people.  I am not named after a hurricane!

Now I'm off to go braid my hair so it's all wavy tomorrow and so I get to spend a few precious moments of Talk Like a Pirate Day with Captain Jack Sparrow hair.

I Remember

You were already in bed before anything happened.  By the time your parents got the call, you were fast asleep in bed.  Your parents let you and your younger brothers sleep through the night.  After all, you were only eleven.  No sense in waking you up.

The next morning, you woke up at six thirty like normal.  You got dressed and set the breakfast table.  Did you start your math work early?  You don't remember anymore.  What did you do?  You don't remember having instant messenger yet, so you couldn't be doing that.  Come on, you didn't even have your own email address or Wi-Fi at this point.  All you remember is that this was as another ordinary morning.

You had no idea the world changed overnight.

It hadn't changed overnight for some people.  For most, it had changed suddenly while they were at school or work.  Most of the world knew everything was different, but you didn't know yet.

Your brothers were woken up with the usual amount of fuss it took.  Did you even eat breakfast before you knew?  Your memory doesn't seem to think so.  Your parents sit all three of you down on the couch.

"Something happened in New York."

They play the footage they recorded on a VHS tape.  You kind of understand what went on.  Four planes had crashed:  two into the towers of the World Trade Center, one into the Pentagon, and one in a field in Pennsylvania.  You see footage of people jumping from towers, running from enormous clouds of dust, bleeding, crying.  You see footage of the President speaking.

"Those people should go to jail," your five-year-old brother says after Mom and Dad explain it.

Your parents explain to him that these people are dead.

You're only eleven.  You understand this is bad, though.  Your mind goes back to Pearl Harbor.  You know this new event is just like that.  No one who lived through that day will forget.  You still remember you were sitting on the blue three-person couch in your living room in Asahikawa, Hokkaido, Japan.

You see footage of the President standing in front of the rubble, talking to the nation.  Firefighters raise a flag over the rubble--your generation's Iwo Jima moment.  Your country cannot be defeated so easily.

Your story is different because you were in another country than America, but you know in some ways it is the same as every other person of your generation.  You felt the world change.  You have friends who chose what they want to do with their lives based on the heroes of that day and the following days.  You share your story and emotions with anyone who wants to talk about it.

The day of 9/11 is the day of shared stories of lives changed instantly forever.

Yours is just one.