Birthplace: (n) the place where a person was born.
I suppose I could end the essay right there.
But perhaps it is my responsibility to make comment, storyline or even complaint about the location.
Having traveled for many years all over the U.S., I will tell you–there is no such thing as a natural Eden or a perpetual hell.
Once a birthplace has been secured for you due to the proximity of your conception, what follows is a needful series of feelings, which make that place tolerable–even blessed.
They tell me that the Son of God was born in a barn. Yet when we want to insult people, we make reference to the fact that they act like they were “born in a barn.”
So is the problem our birthplace?
Are there really regions of the country which are outposts for prejudice, anger, antipathy or intellectualism?
Of course not.
Being born requires a vagina and gravity.
After that, if you’re going to make a human being, you must mingle love, responsibility, work ethic and humor.
If you’ve got those four working, the place of your birth is truly insignificant.