Photo by Ryan Sims.

Back in 8th grade Social Studies, I remember spending a class period watching Alaska travel videos. As the camera panned across mountains and glaciers, zoomed in on great bull moose antlers and brown bears snatching salmon from streams, soared with bald eagles and marveled as the Northern Lights danced across a dark December night, I felt an unsettling mix of longing and pride. Longing, because the videos certainly achieved their purpose. Damn, I remember thinking, I want to go to Alaska.

Technically, of course, I was already there, but for some reason waiting for the bell to ring in a room full of Abercrombie obsessed 13-year-olds didn’t exactly fulfill the dreams of “Adventure” and “Discovery” promised on screen. But then the pride kicked in and I recalled that I’d seen more than my fair share of moose and bears and birds, and that I’d been climbing mountains since before I could walk. Alaska was home, the only home I’d ever known.

Six years later, I now spend nine months of the year living just north of Chicago. Alaska is still home, but it occasionally strikes me as odd that I consider “home” to be an area larger than all but 18 sovereign countries. Because when asked the standard “What’s your major/Where are you from” get-to-know-you questions of college, my response is always “Alaska,” and not “Anchorage.”

And yet Anchorage, and more specifically, South Anchorage, is a crucial characteristic of my hometown’s identity. I did not grow up in an igloo and I have never made use of any whale blubber. I did grow up amongst well-off families whose financial status could be judged based on how far up into the hillside they carved their property. Nearly every girl in my high school had a tanning membership and a Coach purse; nearly every guy had a lifted truck with shiny chrome rims. At least that’s how it seemed.

At times, it was easy to abhor a community so devoid of both poverty and diversity. It was easy to resent peers who used daddy’s credit card, and not biweekly paychecks, to fund shoe fetishes and backseat subwoofers. My parents both loved me and there was nothing I truly lacked, but I forgot to feel so blessed when I thought about friends who owned lakeside cabins larger than my house. And yet in spite of all this, I am thankful to have grown up where I did. Yes, students carried the latest designer handbags, and it could sometimes be sickening. But we also carried the latest editions of every textbook, and for that, I owe everything. And besides, in Alaska even daddy’s credit card can’t always keep you from the real kind of fun. Driving around with friends on a cool summer night, looking for something to do, “I’m bored” is often followed by “Let’s go hiking.” It doesn’t matter that at least one person is wearing flip-flops; an hour or so later, standing 3,510 feet above sea level and watching the midnight sky turn pink, the view from up here kicks the Willis Tower’s ass.

I have been fishing, hunting, backpacking, camping and rock climbing. I enjoy four-wheeling and dirt-biking, and I think the word “snowmobile” sounds like something Batman would enjoy — it’s called a snow machine. I’ve tried dog mushing and ski-jouring, skipped class to go snowboarding and know more than one stoner who grows his own pot. And yet I’ve also whined about the cold, turned into a raging bitch on account of too many mosquitoes and opted to go shopping instead of join in on a Coastal Trail bike trip. This is Alaska.

I knew I lived in “The Last Frontier” before I knew what a frontier was. I’ve been inculcated with trivia regarding our state flower, state bird and state gem since birth. I learned about Benny Benson before I learned about Betsy Ross. I can tell the difference between various plants and I know which berries are okay to eat. I know not to play dead if ever charged by a brown bear and not to climb a tree if the bear is black. Never get between a mother and her young. This is Alaska.

South Anchorage may seem like just one more uppity suburb filled with spoiled little rich kids, but South Anchorage is still part of that magical state from the travel videos. And that is what makes us unique. Even the blondest of Barbie dolls, despite how convincingly she may profess her fear of bugs and breaking nails, has more likely than not donned a pair of hip waders or cooked dinner over a bed of coals.

So, when answering that annoying little where-are-you-from icebreaker, my reasons for neglecting to pin down one specific location go beyond the fact that “South Anchorage” probably doesn’t mean much to anyone who has never been there. I’m from Alaska. My home town just doesn’t tell the whole story. My home, on the other hand, does.