Where I’m From

My church “Connections” group met again last night, this time with the theme of “Holding History,” with “history” interpreted as cultural, national, or personal. One of the optional assignments was to write a poem reflecting on roots—on the home, family, traditions, and experiences that shaped our earliest selves—based on a poem by George Ella Lyon, that can be found here. I didn’t choose to tackle this task initially because I’ve been largely amnesiac when it comes to my childhood, and even later years. But after hearing what two of my fellow group members created, and after my unexpectedly odd contributions to the evening’s discussion, I decided to write my poem this morning. I strayed from the provided template, but the exercise was fruitful. I remember more than I knew; the poem is just over two pages long, and could have been much longer. Maybe at some point it will be, but not now.

Kurt Vonnegut urged everyone to produce art—a drawing, a poem—without worrying about who would see it or how it might be received. The point is, as he put it, to grow your soul. I second his suggestion, because I think this work grew mine. Here’s what emerged for me:

Where I’m From

I’m from the entire library of Time-Life Books,

pages dazzling with colors and shapes and rows of letters 

a code that pressed me to learn their secrets.

I'm from ants marching across a Miami sidewalk,

from jars of butterflies and cockroaches and spiders

sprinkled with dry blades of grass for food,

dying as they starved or suffocated or surrendered.

I'm from sharp grains of sand on hot salty skin, and smears of tar on my suit,

coming back from the beach where the waves lifted and dipped and tumbled me.

I'm from Mrs. Lewis, who purred every night as I itched in response,

enduring for the comfort of fur and purr against my chest.

I'm from white stucco and a concrete block-bordered rock garden,

from razor-pointed succulents and cacti.

I'm from moist black dirt and soft-petaled periwinkles, hibiscus,

and yellow blooms vining on the chain-link backyard fence.

I’m from the swing set and maze of monkey bars where I hung from my knees until dusk.

I’m from reading under the covers past midnight

and answering the furnace when it grumbled, certain it understood my secret heart.

I'm from hurricanes, flashlights and candles, bathtub full of water,

furious curtains of rain, a flooded park where my big brother and I surfed on wooden slats.

I'm from restaurant parking lots rimmed with angry red faces

hurling rocks at people carrying signs and singing as they paced.

I’m from gentle brown hands on my shoulders, restraining me,

and the hope that the rocks would miss my parents.

I'm from acres of south Georgia woods, 

eerie and fragrant, haunting and haunted,

teeming with alien life,

from an iron-railed patch of ground with a scant dozen tombstones

marking the fleet lives of some long-gone family.

I'm from what seemed like hours in a dark closet,

my brothers under beds,

my mother brandishing a shotgun,

shouting threats as she guarded her children

and waited for the deputies to arrive.

I’m from my father's collapsing face as she told the story

when he returned from business far from home.

I'm from Duchess, the black pony ever seeking freedom,

finding it under a semi barreling down Highway 17.

I'm from Ginger, whom I saw eating her stillborn colt,

and whose presence ever afterward made me dizzy with horror.

I'm from bells ringing in wood-floored hallways smelling of sawdust,

from weaving alone through knots of boisterous children

because I was small and talked like a stuck-up Yankee.

I'm from soft-spoken Mary, who cared for me but gently untwined me,

teaching me that, in 1966 Georgia, hugging her in public

would only get us both in trouble.

I'm from Glen, a Montana farmer's smart, ambitious, eldest son

who left the farm and, with it, his father's good graces.

Instead of wheat and sheep he chose college and company books,

an eventual career as a hard-working, capable executive

with all the perks, except for his father’s approval or pride.

I'm from a good provider, diligent

despite white-collar alcoholism and arbitrary anger,

despite a hallucinogenic world and a family increasingly chaotic,

difficult to love, and impossible to control.

I'm from a patriarch stymied,

a corporate success,

baffled, feared, resented, failing in his home.

I'm from Happy, daughter of rural Maine,

toddler abandoned by a desperate mother

to a taciturn father predictable only in his rage

and the successive women he brought home

for their warm bodies and to grudgingly tend his daughter.

They never stayed long.

I'm from a quick mind, encouraged by another girl’s mother and teachers

who cared and cultivated in a world

where no one else did.

I'm from a housemaid at fifteen,

a college girl juggling jobs,

a girl who married for love and stability

but was disappointed in both.

A painter, a poet,

a teacher who never stopped learning,

a safe lap to sit in when she found time to sit,

a loving mother when she found time to love.

I'm from arguments over Christmas trees

followed by tinsel, tin bells, glittered balls, tiny lights,

strings of popcorn and cranberries

woven through fragrant branches.

I'm from Dad distributing plentiful presents,

each carefully chosen and perfect.

I'm from Mom's holiday dinners

of stuffed turkeys, mashed potatoes and gravy,

honeyed carrots, yams, green beans and almonds,

creamed onions, hot rolls, pumpkin pie with whipped cream,

wondering if a clash would punctuate the meal,

waiting with held breath, just in case.

I'm from "It's not that bad" and "It'll be okay,"

from "Try not to worry" and "He really does love you."

I'm from "I love you" and "I love you too."

I'm from solitude and outstretched hands.