Where I'm From

I am from the house across the street from school, from K-Tel Records, and American pancakes.

I am from the Danish furniture in the living room and shag orange carpet and Cuban hands making Swedish meatballs.

I am from the palm trees and mountains of the west, the palm trees and flatlands of the south, and the rains that rain so hard here, but not at all only 20 feet away.

I am from the loud places of the santeria coconuts and goats, the candles of the Scandinavians and the candles of the Jews. I am from Jørgen, from Basílio and from Avraham.

I am from flying the globe in jets to put more colored pushpins on the map at home, and then keeping secrets about what I did where the pushpins were.

I am from "She's gifted but we don't know what to do with her" and going to Marcie's house on Saturday afternoons when no one knew what to do.

I am from the the old building with the faded blue ceiling atop a holy mountain far away, where American tourists in white clothing streamed in regularly and whispered "Zohar," and the old men in peyot did a daaven and dance at the same time. I am from the bomb that exploded less than a minute after.

I am from the Beowulf, the José Martí. From the cafecito and open-faced sandwiches that smell of the ocean.

I am from Manuel, who tried to get to Florida but was met by sharks when he fell off his balsa in the straits. I am from the wails and the crying and lamenting whether democracy is worth the trouble, after all. I am from my mother who went to the U.S.S.R. to find out and came back with lots of Russian lacquer boxes in her blue suitcase.

I am from my dad's sweater. From pictures of my mother when she was happy. I am from a smiling teenager who asks "What's for breakfast? " and quells my doubts every day.

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Thank you to Writing and Living for doing it on her blog, and providing the link to the template so that others can do it, too.