Back in Indiana, where I grew up, people would always ask, “Where are you from”?
“Indiana,” I would reply, gesticulating uncontrollably in the way that my parents did.
“No, where are you really from!? Who and what the hell are you?” This is perplexing since I am a white guy, heterosexual even, among the privileged of the privileged, although I somehow never really felt it.
I kept quiet. I didn’t want to admit that my Dad was from Oz and my Mom from Narnia. We even had a great uncle from Mordor, though he was rarely spoken of, and only in hushed tones.
Indeed, we rarely spoke about anything to do with our family history, who we were and are. We remain mysteries even to ourselves, born in that most prototypical of American farm and small-town states, with our grandparents having immigrated from distant lands.
I don’t believe there is an answer to the question, “Who are you,” anyway. People may think they are an American or a Christian or a Buddhist or a white person or an Asian or a Jew or whatever, but they never quite know what that really means. Culture is always changing, so saying I am a Narnian means nothing. Narnia is a completely different country than it was in the days of the White Witch. Nowadays it has advanced technology and gleaming skyscrapers, and the realm of magic has long ended. Fauns no longer appear in public and beavers don’t speak. The Narnian culture has become narcissistic, with the affluent flaunting their iPads and Teslas.
Still, hidden beneath the surface is an angry subcurrent who believes that Narnia’s mystical past will return, that it’s in the blood, that the true spirit of that enchanted land will one day rise again and stomp out the interlopers. One hyper-nationalist faction even sees the White Witch as embodying the true spirit of Narnia and eagerly awaits her return.
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