What It Means To Be A Native
an unforgettable night in Italy and a killer Noah Kahan song
AI Stable Diffusion: “A depiction of the American South landscape, in the style of Monet.”
I once met a British man named Simon who told me his greatest dream was to visit the American South.
It was my family’s first trip to Europe. My brother and I left a few days before my parents and arrived in Florence, Italy, jet-lagged and hungry.
A quick dinner, we agreed. Let’s grab a quick dinner, close to the Airbnb, and then we’ll sleep for fourteen hours.
It was a balmy July evening, and the restaurant was small and intimate, with family-style seating and bottomless jugs of table wine. We found two seats nestled between a middle-aged Canadian couple and a young British couple. I remember being so close to them that we were practically knocking elbows. The awkward proximity and the table wine unplugged a flood of conversation between the six of us. A conversation I’ll never forget.
When Simon (the British husband) learned Nick and I were North Carolina natives, he excitedly launched into the mysterious joys of “the great American South.”
“I can’t believe it’s a real place. It’s crazy to think that it even exists. I’ve always wanted to go there. My bucket list item is to attend an Alabama football game before I die. Just once.”
Bewildered, my brother and I burst out laughing. I don’t know what we were expecting to follow a strange British man’s “bucket list item before I die” but “Alabama football” was not it.
“We’ll have to get you tickets,” Nick said.
“What? You’ve been before?”
“Oh, sure. My dad and I go whenever we can. It’s incredible.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. You’re so lucky.”
We were in Florence, Italy – the birthplace of the Renaissance, home to the Vatican, the statue of David, and the Sistine Chapel – and Simon was waxing poetic about Alabama. The irony was not lost on me: Italian restaurant, British man, American dream.
It’s strange how we consider things in our lives to be normal, mundane, so attainable that they’re no longer worth mentioning, while someone else hangs on our every word, eyes shining with envy. Seeing your life through the eyes of a stranger is a gift. At that time, the American South had long since lost its grandeur for me, but Simon’s perspective brought me back, grounding me in my own roots. I felt an unexpected swell of pride.
I was proud of the South. I was a native of this place, and that had to mean something.
I’ve always loved the idea of being a “native.” No matter where you go, who you meet, what you do or don’t accomplish in life, there will always be a place you come from and a place for you to return to. Being a native is different from being at home. A home is a place that you create. You enrich it with life and love and care and comfort. It’s fluid and flexible, existing under any circumstance. But you only come from one place.
Noah Kahan, one of my favorite artists, wrote a song called The View Between Villages (listen while you read - it’s an incredible song). It’s about the emotional journey he embarks on while driving into his hometown, the first place he ever belonged.
It starts off nostalgic and hopeful:
Feel the rush of my blood
I’ve seventeen again
I am not scared of death
I’ve got dreams again
But it transitions into something harder, uglier, a little more painful:
Passed Alger Brook road
I’ve over the bridge
I’m headed for home but I feel so far from it
The death of my dog
The stretch of my skin
It’s all washin’ over me, I’m angry again
Parts of us will always belong to the places we come from. And there’s something undeniably special about belonging. We owe some shred of our being, however small or large, to that place, the place that raised us and shaped us, the first place we ever belonged.
That’s what it means to be a native: a seesaw of belonging and returning.
The South has its issues (you can use your imagination), but it’s the first place I ever belonged to. And I love it. I want to travel the world, but I want to raise my kids here.
I want them to see life through the same sepia-tint that I did as a kid, with bare feet in summer grass and cicadas humming in trees; muggy evenings spent watching hummingbirds with grandmothers on back porches; beach days that scrub you clean with sand and salt and sea; hydrangea bushes and Southern hospitality and Fourth of July barbecues and church pews and Sunday dinners in humble kitchens and yes, Alabama football games.
That “quick dinner” in Florence turned into a five-hour dining extravaganza.
It was almost a meme. What happens when two Canadians, two Britians, and two Americans sit down for dinner? (Well, they share stories until 1 am, when the kitchen finally sends out a round of limoncello shots as a polite nudge: get the heck out.)
We couldn’t have been more different: our accents, our backgrounds, our ages, our life experiences, and yet that night will forever be one of the most extraordinary human interactions I’ve ever had.
Traveling amplifies our native identities. It gives us perspective and appreciation for the places we come from, and it allows us to connect with others in more meaningful ways. It’s the first thing you ask a stranger. Where are you from? It’s the last thing you discuss. When are you going back? And it’s all the in-between, whether we realize it or not. What was it like growing up? Why are you the way that you are? What are your unique life experiences?
Home may be the story you write along the way, but the place you’re native to imprinted its ink upon you first.
Food for thought: Where are you from, and what does that place mean to you?
If you enjoyed this essay, you may like this one, too. Also, say hi on Twitter if you haven’t already!
Have a beautiful Saturday,
G
You tell this story so well, Grace, and completely capture the feeling of meeting people who subvert your expectations. Beyond that, your distinction between your native place and your home is insightful and essential.
If your home could only ever be your native place, you'd always feel uncomfortable and away from home. And if you treated your current home as your native place, you'd lose your connection to your roots.
Every time I go through customs in a foreign country, I get tripped up. They ask, "Where are you coming from?" Recently, the right answer has been New Jersey. But, my natural, instinctual response is, "Kansas City." No matter my destination, my point of origin is always the same — because I'm a Kansas-City native.
A beautiful piece Grace, and it certainly stirs up some nostalgia. I recall coming back home after a few years working and traveling around the world aboard cruise ships and visiting several dozen countries (though cruising is like an amuse-bouche for travel) and I just remember walking down to a nearby dyke with a lovely view of a lake and mountains I have seen countless times. I stood, taking in this vista with a palpable sense of awe and appreciation for its beauty that was there the whole time, thinking, "I really do live in one of the most beautiful places on earth." It was simply my perspective that had changed.
Your piece also brings up some thoughts I've had around the relationship between land and people. And that even though we're beings and animals that can scurry and move across the face of the Earth relatively unhindered it seems the relationship is bidirectional, like we are both fruiting bodies and stewards of the land and culture that we're from. I think this line of thinking was inspired by observations about soil quality, depletion, famine and history (Joel Salatin and Randall Carlson come to mind if I recall).