Roots

I can still see it all in my mind: golden fields rolling as far as the eye can see, wind in my hair, surprising me with such refreshing coolness in the middle of July, and deer running in and out of the brush, barely protruding antlers and spotted coats flashing before me only to disappear just as quickly into the sun-dappled woods. What I feared would be an excruciatingly endless season of waiting has somehow, as if by magic, dwindled down to a midsummer night’s dream that I can’t bear to awake from before heading into the whole new world of university life. In fact, this summer has felt like a magic carpet ride of sorts – a thousand and one unexpected turns, some painful, so many others pleasant with scenery that has absolutely taken my breath away. I didn’t realize how beautiful my hometown is, maybe because it didn’t look like the places I was taught that qualified as “classically alluring.”

Growing up, my father loved taking me to our local art museum almost as much as I loved going. Despite the lack of female artists on display, I longed to become a painter and was enthralled with Monet’s mystical water lilies, captivated by Van Gogh’s starlit skies, and deeply in love with Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa.” However, none of those idealistic European grounds and gardens looked remotely like my corn fields and bluffs, so the idea that my world was worth capturing never occurred to me until quite recently, whenever I visited another wing of the museum. Here, between cherry walls and cream trim fit for royalty, life-sized statues of women made by women (imagine that!) stood towering over me, intricate details such as the ripples in the water or the folds of their clothes brought such goddesses to life, while paintings of sunset fields and early morning marshes stood proudly watching them from afar, their brilliant colors taking my breath away, not just because of their obvious beauty, but because they reminded me of my roots. They reminded me of taking long summer drives with my doodle, her smiling face leaning out the window as I stopped the car to stare at a magnificent creature standing feet from me, sometimes a mama doe with her two kids, other times a gorgeous white stallion (or mare; it’s hard to tell from that angle).They reminded me of leaning forward as my weights coach floored it off of the football field, feeling the wind envelope me in a cool embrace as I took my long awaited victory lap in the high school’s gator (only available if you’re nineteen or up). They reminded me of sipping sweet frappes with bonus parents, the cold a.c. of the car a welcome while we munched on gooey fudge cookies, enjoying every single moment of these last few precious days. All of the moments and memories that I’ve lived through have made me into the woman I am today, and even though I’m going to a private East Coast elite school, I don’t see my small town U.S.A. girl background a burden anymore. I see it as a blessing, because I know that my roots were God-given and, most importantly, God-planted, giving me everything I need to see me through this life, not just to survive, but rather, to thrive. Therefore, I will proudly own my country accent when I sing T. Swift’s “Red” and root for my adopted teams, because I know that where I’m from does not determine my worth, but what does is the content of my heart, the direction that I want to go, and who I want to be.