I keep forgetting my children are from Massachusetts. Despite having lived here for a dozen years, I keep forgetting I live here, and often refer to my parents’ house as “home,” as in, “We’re going home for a week in July.”
But the kids live here. Three of the four were born here. When they go to college and are asked where they are from, they will say “Massachusetts.” The good, the bad, the ugly, the Red Sox in our Yankees house, the Patriots, pahking the cah in Hahvahd yahd.
The accent, oh the accent of the region. Only really prevalent in Boston neighborhoods and certain suburbs thereof, but to the rest of the country it defines the state. It’s funny, then, to hear my two year old call her brother “Coopah.” Ray and I are from New York (that’s a different speech altogether) and Connecticut (where the accent is a bland as tapioca) respectively. Where Joanna learned to drop her Rs and elongate her As is beyond me.
Then there’s the day last week that Ellie said, as she plopped into her car seat, “It is WICKED hot in this CAH!”
Ellie was born in Connecticut.
I guess the place where you live gets into your skin, osmosis.
I like it here, a lot. And I’m sure that one day it will be the only place I say I am from.