Histories

I tell all the Lyft drivers that I’m from Long Island. Just how I used to say that I’m from Brooklyn — I moved when I was ten.

But somehow, that sentiment, that connection, surfaces into the conversation. Into small talk, really.

Winters in Long Island can be rough, too. It’s just colder here.

The trees bloom in Long Island much earlier come spring.

I still don’t know my way around yet…ha, ha…I’m from Long Island.

It’s like we know, they get it — I come from somewhere else.

Even at work, we swap stories. About beaches. About food. I conjure up the Atlantic Ocean. The Long Beach boardwalk. The Nautical Mile. The sushi. The pizza. The 50 minute train ride to New York City. During my lunch break, these words, these images, manifest at the table.

It’s not necessarily always reminiscence at the forefront, either. I think it’s a simple acknowledgment. That I, just like everyone else, have roots. I have a history. And talking about it all keeps it close to me; it’s the certainty of not letting myself ever forget it.

• 0