Where Are You From?

My first memories of Chicago are of snow. It was winter when my family moved to the suburbs of this Midwestern city from the dense, hot metropolis of Sao Paulo, Brazil. I was eight, and all I’d known in my short life up to that point was warm weather. I can still picture the dirty snow banks, piled high on the curbside of our neighborhood, waiting for the school bus to take my brother and me to school. The breath I could see. The funny feeling of wearing gloves and a winter coat.

I went to a private Catholic high school a few cities over from where we lived. That meant having a car when I turned 16 was not only a burning desire, but a logistical necessity. I dated a girl in a town even further than the high school, and my friends were spread all throughout the southwest suburbs. Driving, windows down, wind dancing and swirling with Dave Matthews’ voice in the car, cruising Naperville Road, 75th Street, Hobson Road, I-55 and I-88, up to Lake Shore Drive, Wacker, Halsted; that was my life, my reality. My world was the veins that were the roads of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. We lived off Portillo’s, El Mex, and Lou Malnati’s. We worshipped Jordan and prayed at Wrigley Field. I cried when 9/11 happened; not so much because the Twin Towers in New York came down, but because that morning I was near downtown and looked up at the Sears Tower and thought, Oh my God.  

In the 15 years since I moved from the Chicago suburbs to Washington, DC, I’ve probably flown and/or connected through Chicago’s O’hare International airport, maybe 50 times, give or take? And whenever I had the luxury of stealing a day or two during layovers to head back into the suburbs to see my parents, or into the city to see friends from high school or college, I would. This was home. Always was. Always has been.

I am beyond thankful that my parents, upon their well-deserved retirement, decided to move to DC. I now see them more than 3 or 4 times a year, for the first time in a decade and a half. I am also blessed that my two sons get to experience life with having grandparents around on a regular basis. I didn’t know three of my grandparents, and my mom’s mom passed away when I was young. I have witnessed first-hand the blessing of your children meeting and knowing your parents. It is wonderful.

Yet I am currently laid over in Chicago, waiting for a flight to Mexico City, and for the first time in my life, I am here with no family ties, and I am a crying mess in the United Business Lounge. I am sitting at the bar, drinking wine and writing this, pretending to the bartender that I have a cold and allergies, which is why I am using so many bar napkins to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

I am a tourist in the city that I've called home for most of my life.

This unexpected emotional reaction has forced me to think about a few questions. What is home? What does it mean when someone asks you where you’re from? I haven’t lived in Chicago or her suburbs in over 15 years, but whenever someone asks me where I’m from, I have one answer: Chicago.

So, what is home? Is it a physical location, or where your family is? If it’s a location, what about it that seeps into your blood stream, into your soul? Is it the fact that we adorn a location with childhood memories and indelible imprints that shaped you into who you’ve become, for good and for bad? Is it unfair to burden a location with such intimate ornaments?

I love my parents and my sons. They are all with me in DC, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. But, why do I love this city of Chicago so much?