Figuring out where I’m from

"Where are you from?" he asked. The question came from a businessman in Peachtree City not long after I moved to the area during the summer of 1983.

"Well," I responded, "I moved here from Colorado but my home state is Tennessee."

"No, no!" he exclaimed. "That's not what I meant. I mean where is your family from?"

"They are from Tennessee, too, although my wife's family is from Florida," I replied.

He seemed terribly exasperated when he then said, "That's what's wrong with you people down here in the South. None of you know where you're from!" Seeing my confused look, he said, "Look, my family is from Poland, so I'm Polish. My wife's family is German. That's what I'm talking about. So, are you English, Scotch, or what?" he insisted.

Until that day, I had never thought about it. As far as I knew, my family had lived in Tennessee for generations. We thought of ourselves as Americans, Tennesseans, and Southerners, in that order. In fact, I didn't know anybody in my hometown who ever seemed to think much about it. In high school, the black students talked about how they were "Afro Americans," the term used in those days, but, for the rest of us, the topic simply wasn't discussed. Unless, of course, someone moved in from somewhere else.

In the third grade, a pretty blond with pigtails named Laura announced that she had been born in Austria. That seemed like the most faraway, exotic place ever so all of the boys fell in as deep in love with her as an eight-year-old can muster. Once in a great while, someone would move in from North Carolina or Virginia, but, since that was in the Southern constellation of states, they weren't thought of as strangers.

In those days, Yankees, of course, were considered as the strange people in society but, since none of my friends knew any real Yankees, that wasn't discussed either. My cultural horizons broadened after I enlisted in the Marine Corps and met people with strange sounding names who sported unusual accents from all over the nation. I nearly got into a fight when I called Pvt. Mautino "wop," thinking it was his nickname. It took some powerful talking to convince him that I didn't know that "wop" was an ethnic slur. Finally, calling me a "ignorant hillbilly," he shook my hand and we remained friends. I learned, from that incident, that people were sensitive about their "ethnic origins," although I still wasn't sure what "ethnic" meant. All that would come when I went to college and enrolled in classes in sociology, world history, and the like. Still, I was a child of the South and most of the people I knew were of the same mindset ... we were Americans and, while it might be interesting to know our European origins, we weren't hung up about it.

I asked my father about it and he thought that the Epps family came from Germany and that the Luster side (my mother's family) hailed from Ireland. So, I took a liking for borsch, world domination, and Irish music.

Later — much later — I discovered that the Epps family came from the Epes family of Kent, England, or at least I think so. Five years ago, when I visited Ireland, I looked for the Luster family crest and plaid. Went I asked a shopkeeper why they didn't carry it, he looked at me as though I were a dumb Southern-American with no sense of my heritage and said, "That's because Luster is an English name. Have ye never heard of "Lustershire?'" I admitted I hadn't but thanked him and slunk from the shop.

So, I suppose that my origins are English, except for the reported Cherokee strain that runs through the family, although I suspect that, like most Americans who have been here a while (a book says the Epps' were in the colonies in the 1600s), we are mostly mongrels. It's funny, though; I don't feel English. I still feel, well, Southern!

I stopped at a Chinese restaurant in South Georgia a summer or two ago. The servers were Hispanic, the cook was black, and the music playing over the speaker was country. I felt right at home!

I admit that some of the best food in the world is found in the ethnic restaurants of the north. I've eaten "real" Greek food prepared by Greeks, Italian food cooked by Italians, and German food offered by Germans. In Texas and Colorado, I've eaten Mexican food served and prepared by genuine Mexicans and a Filipino lady in my church has served my wife and me real dishes from the Philippines. It just doesn't get any better than that and I do think that those of us who somewhere along the way cast off the knowledge of our roots are poorer for it. So, in many ways I envy, ever so slightly, those who know their "heritage."

Where am I from? I can only answer with what I know for certain. I am an American, a child of the South, former temporary resident of the Marine Corps and Colorado, currently and permanently living down-home in Georgia, and a native of Tennessee. God bless America! And go Vols!