I grew up in the Los Angeles tangle of freeways and suburbs.

The distant sound of cars and trucks on the interstate was the white noise that lulled me to sleep each night. It's a far cry from the tree frogs and cicadas of Louisiana that lately have assumed the role. From LA to LA. The distance between is a great deal further than you might imagine.

Los Angeles was and is, for many, the terminus of dreams. Contractors and speculators. Artists and actors. Realtors and...well...realtors.

Railroad brochures of the early twentieth century encouraged the migration west from across the country. Of my grandparents' generation, very few were native to the Los Angeles basin, or even the state of California. Even as the East Coast beckoned the "tired and poor" from across the Atlantic, the West Coast beckoned from across the Plains the industrious who cherished a dream and who carried a bit of seed money in their pockets. My Grandfather Fox, a contractor, made the trek with his young family from Oklahoma in a Nash Touring Car that he'd accepted as partial payment for a business debt. And not much else in his pockets.

This migration west is evident even in the professional sports franchises that have become identified with the city. Only the Los Angeles Angels suggest local roots. The Los Angeles Lakers? There are a few lakes--perhaps ponds--scattered about the city; there are reservoirs to be sure, but somehow I can't imagine "Reservoirs" in script across a basketball jersey.  

Then there are the Los Angeles Dodgers. Indeed, what's a Dodger?

Again, the names of these sport franchises reflect their roots prior to their migration west. The Lakers moved long ago from "The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes," Minneapolis, Minnesota. Makes you wonder what celebrities showed up courtside in those days. Garrison Keillor's grandfather?  

And the Dodgers? Well, they headed west from Brooklyn at nearly the same time the Lakers moved from Minnesota. In early Brooklyn the streets were congested with trolley cars. Pedestrians crossed the streets in between the trolleys at their own peril. (Think of a real-life version of the perennial video game "Frogger.") Brooklyn pedestrians then--at least those who survived--were affectionately called "Trolley Dodgers." Or, Dodgers, for short. The next time you accuse the Dodgers of a "pedestrian" effort against an opponent, remind yourself of their origins and ask, "Well, what more should I expect from them?"

Similarly, many of us carry marks of our identity that defined us before we metaphorically moved to sunnier climes. What of you?

Are you still wearing a "jersey" sporting an identity that no longer reflects the values you now cherish? Think of the apostle Paul: "If anyone else has a mind to put confidence in the flesh, I far more...But whatever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss for the sake of Christ" (Philippians 3:4-7).

Might your jersey actually define you as others once saw you, as you once saw yourself, employing words of doubt, derision, and shame? Think of the post-Archie Manning, pre-Drew Brees, New Orleans 'Aints. Whose fans showed up for home games with paper bags over their heads. 

Are you wearing a jersey that no longer makes sense? Think "Utah Jazz."

Or like the Lakers and Dodgers have you powerfully redefined an old identity, your old "scripts"?

If you could migrate to a new space, cast off old identities, edit your story, and change jerseys, what would it look like?