Illinois

     There's no place like home, right? Right.
     Home can be anywhere, really. The old adages of "home is where the heart is" and "home is where you hang your hat" are just as valid as the nostalgia of the place where you were born and/or grew up. I, personally, have always had a hard time determining where "home" should be. In my (two weeks shy of) twenty-one post-natal years on earth—not to forget the nine months where I was technically alive, mortal, and a person, yet I floated inside of a uterus—I have moved eighteen times (eight of those as a missionary in Chile, which is normal). With all of those moves, I have lived in four states in America and three regions in Chile, but the distribution has been far from equal place to place. I moved to California when I was three, and I lived there until I was ten (seven years in the same house, which is an unparalleled personal record). I later moved back when I was fifteen and left again when I was eighteen. So in twenty-one years, I have lived in California for ten. One would say that I'm from California. In fact, that's what I most often do. When somebody asks me, "Where are you from?" I almost always respond, "Carlsbad, California" (where I spent nine of the ten years).
     But I declare proudly that I was born in Springfield, Illinois, home of the Simpsons (not that I'm altogether proud of that). I lived in the tiny, beautiful town of Litchfield until I was two and a half, and then I briefly lived in Chicago until I was three. Almost everyone in my mom's family still lives out there, mostly in and around Litchfield, and I've gone back to visit many time. I absolutely love it. And I have a secret: when I say I'm from California, I typically mean that I'm more familiar with it, because I spent quite a significant portion of my life there. I'm "from" California. But I consider "home" to be Illinois.

     To me, Illinois means family. It means peaceful. It means get away from everything that doesn't matter and remember who made you you. It means small town U.S.A., Route 66, Hardee's, baseball, and the Holiday Inn Express right off the freeway that makes my parents remind us of those old "I stayed in a Holiday Inn Express once" commercials—every time. And I love it.

     Illinois is the only place where I remember what it's like outdoors, what it's like to be a kid again, and why people matter more than things. I love being home.

     Unfortunately, most people I know have never been to Illinois, or at least not for long enough to appreciate it. Even worse, there are so many people I know who can't even pronounce the state's name properly. One of my biggest pet peeves, easily, is when people pronounce the "s" in "Illinois." I don't know how to type the vocalizations of my cringing at the thought of such tyrannical mistreatment of my beloved homeland, but just know that it makes me sick.
     Dictionary.com has the following insert on its page featuring the definition (and pronunciation) of Illinois: "The pronunciation of Illinois with a final [z] which occurs chiefly among less educated speakers, is least common in Illinois itself, increasing in frequency as distance from the state increases."
     Well, you don't get much farther away from Illinois in the continental U.S. than California, so as you can imagine, I've heard this word-slaughter many a time. It's a shame, and no matter how hard I try to educate people, the problem just won't go away.
     Now, there are obviously worse things to worry about, but have you ever experienced something like this? When somebody completely misrepresents you or something you love? I imagine that this is how my roommate, Conrad, feels when I (slightly) misquote The Lord of the Rings. It's the way I feel when somebody misquotes Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Frozone's argument with his wife, Honey, in The Incredibles. It's how I feel when people slander The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Yes, these things have differing levels of importance in society and in eternity, but in my own personal world, these are things that matter.
     Each of us has things that we hold sacred, whether pious or not. There are things we don't want anyone to speak poorly of, regardless of the truthfulness of the accusations. I've heard people make fun of Illinois for the way Illinoisans pronounce (or don't pronounce) things. I have a slightly mid-western accent when I get excited, which is something I inherited from my mom. I know firsthand that the "g" in a gerund ("-ing") is completely optional, words like "gonna" and "wanna" and "ain't'cha" or at least "aren't'cha" sound far better than their dictionary-featured ancestors, and the word "y'all" is soothing to the soul. No, I don't pronounce "wash" or "Washington" with an "r," like "I gotta warsh the car 'fore I can get 'er up ta Warshington." Yes, my grandpa does. And yes, the rest of that sentence is totally me when I get out of that snooty college mood.
     So yes, I'm aware that Illinois has its quirks. But don't you dare ever tell me that as criticism. It's too close to the chest. As I've gotten older, I've seen that the same is true for just about everyone; we anxiously defend what we love—our home, our habits, and our families. I don't fault anyone for "being blind" to the flaws of their make-up, because I don't think we're actually that blind to ourselves. We may not be able to articulate our concerns, but mainly we just don't want others to criticize or point fingers.
     I think that there are two solutions to this disconnect, if we want one: first, those pointing fingers can be more patient and understanding. Exercise compassion. I need a lot of work on this, in some areas more than others. And for those being offended, take a step back and realize that people don't mean to hurt you. You may not be able to see the problem because you're too close to it—"the forest for the trees" and all that. I believe that people are inherently good, that the light of Christ burns within us. We want to do what's right, and we want to fix what's not. It's a natural tendency. It's something we need to adapt if it causes us to be condescending or pessimistic, but it's good that we want to improve. Bottom line, we need to be more understanding of each other. Our families, our experiences, and our feelings are all unique, so we are, too. We have to be open and honest with each other, and we have to be kind.
     We're not perfect, so some of these flaws that others see in us or our heritage may need to change. No matter the tone of the comment, take what's true and learn from it. Be better. Seek understanding and self-improvement. And if you're delivering the feedback, make sure those who hear it hear your heart. Because when people feel that your comments come from a place of love, they'll feel right at home.

It's the little moments that matter most—the little pieces of ourselves that make us who we are. Be proud of them, and don't let any of those formative experiences—positive or negative—pass you by.