Make a Move

I
hate it when people ask me where I’m from. For most people, that’s easy to answer. But for me, it’s a loaded question. I moved a lot as a kid — to seven different cities and at least nine different apartments or houses. So if I tell you I’m from Philly (which I sort of am), it’s only sort of true — because I also used to live in Dallas, Boston, Passaic, Montreal and several other places. And if I tell you I’m from nowhere (or everywhere), well, you’ll probably look at me funny. Or you’ll ask if that’s somewhere outside of New York.

I also dread when people want to play Jewish geography. I know, I know. That “game” is like a national pastime in Klal Yisrael. But for me, it’s guaranteed to make me a loser (despite my last name). Since I moved so many times, I never really lived in most places long enough to know many people well (or learn all their names). When I try to remember names and faces, I also have to remember places. Things get muddled. So I do know some people, but not lots, and probably not your aunt’s second-cousin twice removed. Sorry!

So questions like “Where are you from” and “Do you know so-and-so?” often force me to share more details about my life than I’d care to. But all joking aside, those questions also represent a huge part of my identity.

“Wow, you really lived in the same house since you were born?” I once asked a friend. “Really, really?”