More than three decades ago, I stood by my maternal grandmother’s graveside in a part of rural Louisiana most people never see, surrounded by a sea of relatives I’d never met, who used a parlance I didn’t understand, and realized that I understood nothing about the place or the people that had shaped my mother and, by extension, me. The place she called home. It kicked off a slow burning quest that ultimately came down to this question: What makes home home—and why and how does it matter?

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