“Where are you from?” is a seemingly innocuous thing to ask. A simple question with a simple answer. But beneath the surface, a host of possible answers—each one a miniature life story. Where am I from?

Are you asking where I was born? Far from here, beside another ocean. Are you asking where my family is from? Again, far from here, nestled in rolling green hills—-and before that, from distant lands across the sea.

Perhaps you want to know where I grew up, but even that has a two-part answer: the desert city where I spent my childhood and the small mountain town that shaped me, made me the person I am today.

Or are you asking where I live now, the City of Destiny where I’ve set down roots and the old house with stairs that creak underfoot?

When you’ve had eleven addresses across four states, the answer is never a simple one. What I think this question is really asking is: where do you call home?

Where is home?

For a long time, I wasn’t sure. I’ve always felt like I’m from somewhere else, nomadic by nature, pulled ever onward.

And yet.

Ten years ago today, I packed my belongings in a U-Haul moving truck. My best friend and I climbed into the cab and drove out of Flagstaff headed to the Northwest. I had good reasons to leave, but it was hard to say goodbye all the same. I was moving to chase a dream—and to take a leap of faith.

Tacoma, at first, felt transitional. I was sure that in a year or two or three, we would be moving on. But that isn’t what happened. I stopped moving around. I got comfortable. Now I’ve been here a decade. I know this place and yet there is much more to discover, streets I’ve never ventured down. I’ve seen it grow and change, shake off layers of grit and grime and morph into something beautiful and new.

What at first felt like an alien planet is now familiar ground. I have favorite restaurants and places that my feet carry me by instinct if I don’t have a destination in mind. After ten years, I don’t mind the rain, but in the deepest depths of winter, I still long to feel the sun. Slowly, almost by accident, this in-between place became home.

We got married just over the bridge. We bought a house in this city and made it our own. Our daughter was born here.

Where am I from? I’m from right here. But I’m also from Pennsylvania and Flagstaff and Las Vegas. I’m from the places my ancestors called home: the rugged coast of Ireland and the north of England and the southwest corner of Germany between the Black Forest and the Rhine. I am from all the places I have set foot, every book I’ve read, every meal I’ve savored, all the people I’ve met along the way.

I have no idea where I’ll be in ten years’ time. Maybe I’ll still be here. Maybe I’ll be miles away. But just as Flagstaff will always hold a special place in the story of my life, so will Tacoma always be home for me. The home I chose. The home I’ve made, surrounded by people I love.

So, where are you from?

—30—

Jonny Eberle lives in Tacoma, WA with his family, a dog, and three adorable typewriters. His writing has been published in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. You can listen to his audio drama, The Adventures of Captain Radio, and his writing podcast, Dispatches with Jonny Eberle, wherever you enjoy podcasts.

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