An introductory essay exploring people and place featured in the Crossroads of Missouri magazine.
I am from the Badger Sleep Balm,
from Nixall for our scrapes and Mrs.Meyer’s Geranium hand soap for our hands (and mouths).
I am from that “old record smell.”
(Vanillin, benzaldehyde, who knew mildew smelled so good?)
I am from the thick stalks of the bamboo taking over the corner of my backyard,
which served as a hideout for my dogs.
from Nixall for our scrapes and Mrs.Meyer’s Geranium hand soap for our hands (and mouths).
I am from that “old record smell.”
(Vanillin, benzaldehyde, who knew mildew smelled so good?)
I am from the thick stalks of the bamboo taking over the corner of my backyard,
which served as a hideout for my dogs.
I’m from Hootin an’ Hollerin and murals painted on crumbling brick buildings,
from Mama Jeans’ salad bar and Red Racks.
I’m from the Sunday post-church rush and not-so-authentic Taco Tuesdays,
from “bless your heart” and “ope!”
I’m from the Birthplace of Route 66, the pinnacle of the American Dream, although I’m not sure any of us know what that means anymore.
from Mama Jeans’ salad bar and Red Racks.
I’m from the Sunday post-church rush and not-so-authentic Taco Tuesdays,
from “bless your heart” and “ope!”
I’m from the Birthplace of Route 66, the pinnacle of the American Dream, although I’m not sure any of us know what that means anymore.
I’m from Springfield proper — but also Rogersville and Gainesville,
and the Bryant Creek, and maybe even Columbia now,
cashew chicken and corned beef, both ironic for a vegetarian.
From the good Samaritan neighbor who helped me when I got lost while walking my grandparents’ black pug for the first time on my own,
the birdhouse gourds that hung in the sky,
slowly drying out under the August Missouri sun.
and the Bryant Creek, and maybe even Columbia now,
cashew chicken and corned beef, both ironic for a vegetarian.
From the good Samaritan neighbor who helped me when I got lost while walking my grandparents’ black pug for the first time on my own,
the birdhouse gourds that hung in the sky,
slowly drying out under the August Missouri sun.
I finally found my place when I was just about to leave,
those people tether me to home filled with memories and I miss you’s.
those people tether me to home filled with memories and I miss you’s.
Two hundred miles away. One thousand miles away. I am not sure where to next.
But I will always be that girl in the garden, that girl on the farm,
that girl from the Ozarks.
But I will always be that girl in the garden, that girl on the farm,
that girl from the Ozarks.
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Hi! How are you? What brought you to this publication? Where are you reading this right now? What did you have for breakfast? Where do you want to be?
You get asked a lot of questions in your life.
They range in complexity, from yes-or-no answers to ones that require a bit of backstory, side notes, and perhaps a bibliography for later reference. It’s always been a Midwestern struggle of mine to be concise.
As I grow older, I inch miles and miles away from the place I used to call home growing up, prompting me to reflect on what origins and history even mean in life.
For most of my life, the question of “where are you from?” seemed like such a simple feat. “Springfield,” I would reply. Not so much as a state tacked on at the end, and it would do the trick. Up until I was 18, I lived in the same city, on the same street, in the same house. I never thought twice of how to describe where I was from because there was only one thing I had known up until my early adulthood. For those of you reading, this may be a very familiar or very foreign feeling. What if I told you that where you’re from isn’t just the city you lived in as a kid?
I wrote my first Where I’m From poem when I was around 12, in Mrs.Underwood’s seventh-grade English class at Carver Middle School. I didn’t understand the weight of the exercise, but thinking back, it was my first insight into answering the question of where I’m from beyond solely a geographic location. Could it be that I was also from a common household item? A common saying? A scent? A specific memory? A certain person? Ten years later, and I can definitively answer these inquiries with an astounding YES!!!!
Going to Columbia, MO, under 3 hours away from where I grew up, for college was the first big move in my life. I barely knew anyone from Springfield attending the University of Missouri, and now had to tack on the state at the end of Springfield to properly identify my origins. There wasn’t a Chinese restaurant on every corner serving Cashew Chicken. No new people, fellow students hailing from different counties and countries, that I met had grown up admiring the Robert E. Smith mural that once graced the corner of Campbell and Walnut. They had their own pasts, their own nostalgias, their own answers to “where are you from?’ I felt kind of foreign in a weird, microscopic Midwestern way. Even though Columbia resembled my hometown more than it differed from it, I remember thinking to myself, “Wow, a girl in the big city!” Now take this feeling and times it by one million when I made the move to New York City earlier this year. Now my howdy’s and stories of passing time among my grandparents’ sheep in the pasture were even more alien.
Living halfway across the country from where I grew up has brought me a newfound love for where I’m from. In fact, I feel more connected to the Ozarks 1,000 miles away than I did when I was experiencing the ebb and flow of daily life there. More often than not, I catch myself longing for the Missouri sun on my skin and gushing about its beauty. I have started to wear where I’m from, my history, on my sleeve. I became tethered to home even more when I started working with the students of Lebanon High School on this publication. They expressed a similar interest in everything that makes this part of the country special: recipes, community events, sports, nature. Just like the Where I’m From poem taught me ten years ago, I was reminded of the fact that we are so much more than a pin on a map.
What I’m trying to get at here is that there is a certain pride that comes out of being from the Midwest. While there is some merit to the common agreement that culture originates from larger cities on the coasts, I’d like to argue that there is just as much culture happening in places like the Ozarks. Sure, it might look a little different, sound a little different, and be smothered with sauce, but it's still culture. Without this part of the country, we wouldn’t have the convenience of drive-thrus, the music of Ozark Mountain Daredevils, or the plays of Lanford Wilson (who was born right here in Lebanon!) When I think of Ozark culture, many vignettes come to mind: foraging for morels in the rainy season, long days spent at the nearest body of water, DIY music and venues located in dank basements, and county fairs that draw in hundreds of people with the promise of fried food and rides that could make you sick. I love it all. There is a lot to be proud of by being from the Midwest, a lot of which is reflected here within these 32 pages: events that encourage cross-cultural exchange, sports that promote healthy competition, and the artworks of Missourians that keep this place filled with a richness that is so uniquely Midwestern you can’t help but love it.
I hope by flipping through these pages — reading the words of young people with bright futures and seeing the beautiful photos that capture life in the Ozarks and beyond — you too will start to reflect on where you’re from and how that shapes who you are today.