Monday, July 23, 2007

Home Again

This weekend, surrounded by double-decker buses, Cody and I took black cabs and wandered through galleries; we shared a plate of 'biscuits' and sipped dark coffee out of very white cups, and while I loved every bit of it, there was a moment sitting outside at the cafe when I felt so far away from where I come from. Biscuits in the world I was brought up in are to be covered with livermush gravy and eaten for breakfast; coffee should be rainwater weak; cabs should be yellow, slicked with rain and hailed only in movies.


For years, I likened this feeling--this far from home feeling--to one of being an impostor. As an undergrad when I flew to England in an old itchy green sweater with nothing but a soft duffel bag and a journal, I was afraid of being found out, afraid that somehow "they" would "know" I wasn't one of them. It's that same thing that kept me from carrying a camera to far too many foreign countries: the fear of appearing to be a tourist, an outsider, an other. Even sadder, though, I sometimes think it also kept me far from home.

There's an old home video of me in a rocking chair on the front porch wearing a long cornflower blue dress. I am fifteen. "Davey, Davey," I yell, and my southern accent is so thick, I cringe just thinking about it. "Come sit on my lap and sing Jesus Loves Me." Dave, now grown and married and able to love and barbecue, runs to me and sits on my lap and sings song after song, until the camera man (read: dad) gets bored or tired or just needs to go in and boil water for the mac and cheese, and the screen goes black.


I don't really know what happened to my accent. Sure, if I've had a couple of glasses of wine my words get taffier, and my fake one ain't bad, but why was I so anxious to lock that part of myself up? I wish--at fifteen or sixteen--someone would have given me a good shaking and told me not to be so quick to cut whatever it was I was so bound and determined to lose.

And heck, maybe they did, and maybe I didn't quite listen at the time, but I can still feel it knocking my bones; I can still be rattled, still shaken, until, suddenly, I'm just a little ways around the world, not so very far away at all. I sit with my love; the rain has stopped for a spell; he doesn't ask what I'm thinking; instead, he breaks the last cookie in two and offers me the sweetest half.

8 comments:

little miss mel said...

You were in London? How sweet is that. I need to get there someday...

I think your "old self" is something TO write home about. Don't ever lose yourself.... then I wouldn't know where to find you. ;)

So glad you found me. What the hell else is going on?

Nicole Callihan said...

O lil' miss mel, just living and loving. So good to see your face and read your words. Takes me back to a long, long time ago!

Gaar said...

I would have loved to meet you in London. We could have gone to the Borough Market in Southwark and sat along the Thames. That's my favorite area in all of London.

I could read your blog for hours, Nicole...

Anonymous said...

this is why i must ply you with alcohol.
hearing your accent has always made me smile...
sweet bird.

Joe Hefner said...

As an academic my fear of a Southern accent used to be unbearable. To think I that I use to believe it some how made me appear dumb...I put too much stock in the popular image of the Southerner as a Beverly Hillbilly ...keep 'em coming my sister...

Nicole Callihan said...

Ah my brother the academic! My dear Kate the pusher! Sweet Gaar the Thames walker! I miss you all.

Deb said...

Dear Nicole,
You don't know me but I knew your Dad many years ago in High School. Then he was a real "hippy" with a burning love for Jesus. He drove a fast dune buggy, loved to play basketball, and had some special loves in his life.
I remember the softer side of him,trying to pretend to be shy, and hoping I would look his way. After he married and had you we lost touch for the most part. I have kept up with him through his web site and now you through your blog.
I sat today and read your writings with tears streaming down my face. You words are beautiful and some relate straight to my heart. I am a country girl and have always had a somewhat low opinion of myself. (If I remember correctly, your Dad didn't, of me, that is). He must be very proud of you and I wanted you to know I am inspired and touched by your poetry. I would love to have a copy of your book. I will send an address if it is ok along with payment.
Thank you for inspiring me to know who I am and not running from "ME".
Thank you for reminding me to keep slurring those i"s and hanging on to my Southern drawwwlll!
DW

Nicole Callihan said...

Debbie--It's so wonderful to hear from you. I love thinking of you knowing my dad all those years ago. I don't have a book per se, just a little chapbook, and I'd love to send you a copy! Just get me your address. Thank you--for reading, for caring, for being in touch. More soon, I hope.