Leaving Home

I’m leaving my native land. I always knew that I’d leave, but I’m still not prepared. When I left Oklahoma for Texas, it felt temporary, as all military moves do. And north Texas isn’t that different from central Oklahoma – the people sound the same, the air smells the same, and the sky still goes on for miles.

 My great-grandma’s birth certificate reads “born May 18, 1896 near McAlester, Indian Territory.” She was 11 when Oklahoma became a state, and she remembered feeling ambivalent about it. She was an Indian first, one who was proud of her braids and the fact that she could outrun the boys and hurdle over fences better than them, even in her dress and petticoats. Her parents were in the Territory because her father was a Sooner – he did not know that a date had been set for settlement. He had just heard that there was land available. Her mother was there because her parents had survived the Trail of Tears – the last leg that moved the Cherokees to the Territory to join the four other “Civilized Tribes.”

My connection to the geography is strong. I learned all the little towns from watching the weather during tornado season. My friends and family were scattered all over the state. The ruts from the Chisholm Trail were still visible in the neighborhood where my mom and stepdad lived.

Those ruts are visible in the town I’m leaving here in Texas. If I followed them, I could get home. I can always find my way here, because I can always see the sun. For someone accustomed to a skyline and a canopy of trees, the open sky of my home would probably be disorienting – vast, blue, desolate. For one like me, it’s a map leading homeward. From my new home, I can see the Chicago skyline. Folks there orient themselves according to buildings and landmarks. It’s dizzying to me. On a street corner downtown, there is a memorial plaque built into the sidewalk. Thousands of people shuffle over it daily, maybe never noticing that it commemorates the site of Ft. Dearborn. I have a strange connection to my home’s past. I’ve heard many of the stories first-hand. My great-grandma, who lived in comfort in our large home in a country club neighborhood, also lived in a sod house. She picked daisies off her own roof and swept her dirt floor. I’ll miss the historic sites where I once went to feel a sense of belonging, of kinship – the Harn Homestead, Spiro Mounds, the Cowboy Hall of Fame.

I’ll always be an Okie, but my child will not. I can tell her the stories, I can take her to visit, but she’ll always be a tourist. A second-hand Okie. I know I’ll never live there again. I hardly recognize the city now – it’s experiencing a second boom, much like the one that ended in the 80’s. I’ll make a new home with my family in Illinois, but I’ll never be mistaken for a native. My accent, rather than my words, will be my shibboleth. I may have to conquer my fear of heights. I know I’ll want to see the sky, uninterrupted, again. If I climb high enough, I think I can. I’ll place the stars by memory, even though I won’t be able to see them. I’ll tell my child where they are supposed to be.