Don't Forget Where You Live

“Don’t forget where you live.”

---F. L. Kelley, Sr.

My father would say this every time one of us walked out the door. He wasn’t really concerned that we’d forget our address or not be able to find our street; it was more than that. I know where I live, and, lucky for me, it’s the same house I've been remembering for years. The same room where my father sat, watching the game and reading the paper, is where I sit if I have to wait up for a child. Our side yard, where my friends would pull up and honk is now where my own kids wait for a ride, or, in the case of the boys, park their cars when they visit. The car horns and slamming screen doors echo through years of Friday night dates; Neck runs, prom dates and playmates trying to round up enough people for kickball.

An address on a driver’s license isn’t what my father meant when he warned us against forgetting where we live. And it’s not as simple as “where you live is who you are.”  It’s about the place you’ve chosen to call your home. Fair warning, it’s a little bit of a philosophical rabbit hole, something my father was known for getting lost in, but it came to mind recently when there was a discussion on being a “True 'Header.” In its most basic meaning, a “True ‘Header” is someone who was born in Marblehead. Usually, this means the old Mary Alley hospital which doesn’t exist anymore, so in one way, a true ‘Header is quite rare. Sure, now and then a wee one gets born at home, here in town, and that’s pretty amazing, but overall, where you happen to slide into the world, slippery and screaming, isn’t always where you are “from.” In a town like ours, with so much history, so many significant world events that began here, and so much pride, I can understand the importance some place on being a true ‘Header. To a point, that is.

Eventually, though, it must be asked, “Does everyone who lives here now, but  who came from somewhere else have to be identified as such?” How long does one have to live in a place to say, for instance, “I’m from Marblehead?”  I was eight years old when I moved here. It’s been 46 years, and other than a brief time in college, this has been where I call home. What is the proper response when someone asks me, “Where ya’ll from?” For the record, the “ya’ll” is legit, it seems the only people who ask that are from the southern part of the United States; they’re just extra sweet and friendly like that. Vermont holds a special place in my heart, because when I lived there, for school, it became my home, in ways that are not defined by a zip code. I’m not from there though.

Before we moved to Marblehead, my family went all the way back in Nahant to when the boat from County Cork docked. The best stories my parents told growing up happened over in Nahant, like the time my father “borrowed” a police car for a joy ride or the time my mother rode her bike down the church steps. They were from there. I don’t think I am though. Their parents? They were from Ballydehob and Clonakilty. And so it goes; the concept of where we are from becomes a debate, or, sadly, something that causes yet another division between separate groups.

Our country is incredibly divided right now; I’m pretty sure everyone would agree on at least that. Regardless of what label you carry, be it political, racial, geographical or financial, the fact remains that like a Venn diagram, there are lots of areas that overlap. There is someone in town whose ancestry goes back to the same village in Ireland where two of my grandparents lived. So, are we “from” the same place? He’s lived here his whole life, born right in town. He’s a ‘True Header” by definition, but I am not, so I guess that’s a no. Seems very strange to me though, there must be something I am missing. I love telling people about my hometown. It’s the birthplace of the American Navy; our founding fathers were regulars at taverns and historic homes. There’s an ocean that on rare days I can hear from my driveway. There are beautiful beaches, great people, and fresh lobster.  When my father said “don’t forget where you live, he didn’t mean Marblehead or even Nahant. He meant where we are rooted, and where those we claim as our own, wait for us, care for us, and welcome us back.

My children are still finding their way into their adult lives, so who knows what they might say when someone asks, “Where are you from?” I do want them to remember where they live though, always. We should all remember who our people are, regardless of what a map might say. I live here. This is my home, because of who my people are. Call it whatever you like, I won’t forget.