Where I'm From

Where Are You From?
"If you don't know where you're from, you'll have a hard time saying where you're going." ~Wendell Berry
We need to understand our roots to know our place in the world.

Since my students and I will be writing Where I'm From poems in class this week, I thought I would repost one of my old ones. This one focuses on memories from Dad's side of the family. I love to introduce this poem as a neat way to get students thinking and writing about things they have personal connections to. It's really awesome to see them take the template and make it their own. It's a great way to get to know students and gain insight into their lives.

Here's where I am from...
I am from fun-shaped pancakes, Nike before it was Nike Air, punchbowl cake and coffee, tin foil, and hose pipes.

I am from the white house with green shutters, the playhouse where I made mud pies with red berries and invited Daddy in for tea, and the living room where we broke the Atari joystick playing Pac Man.

I am from the angel trumpets in my grandmother's garden and the bushes of peonies that lined Daddy's sidewalk.

I am from the ghost stories of Coleman Street and a long line of dancers, from Grandma Elsie and her son Timmy, from honesty, hard work, and hugs given daily.

I am from stubbornness and those who speak their minds, from the holiday gatherings where I laughed with cousins as a child and cried with the same ones when Nannie died.

From "you're my favorite horse if you don't ever win a race" and "Don't take no wooden nickels." I'm from the "Sunny Side of the Street."

I am from the Methodists who sing all 4 verses of the hymn on Sunday morning and the Baptists who believe the Creation Story is no myth and that God is in control.

I am from Eden, the Wright brother's, the authentic First in Flight. From Nannie's orange Slice drink in a bottle on a hot summer day and Daddy's salmon cakes poppin' in their own grease on the stove.

From the soldier who served in Desert Storm when I was in the 5th grade, that feisty woman with the poofy white hair, and the woman who raised me like I was her own daughter.

I am from those who rest permanently on a hill off Sneed Road, the pictures I have to remember them by, from a father who tells me I am his hero, when really he is mine.