where I'm from

Thank you, Spanglish.

An Exercise in Identity

I am from red wool mittens, from Sorel Boots and ponchos and wandering on the dunes.

I am from small houses with odd details, refinished furniture and good smells of roasting meat and old books. From comfortable laps and goodnight stories after getting lost on deserted beaches, the roar of Lake Michigan like a tempo in my blood.

I am from leaf-dappled, myrtle-strewn paths, the old apple trees down the meadow, the broad, flat, slow, easy river.

I am from Hoppin' John on New Year and banana pancakes and deep hazel eyes, from Rosemary and Laurinda and many Edwards, strong and true.

I am from smart, independent women and caring, compassionate men. From lightning bug night-lights and midnight cocoa when it stormed. From peanut butter and red onions, oysters swallowed raw and whole.

I am from the religion of my fore-fathers, hot Sunday mornings spent in dresses and scratchy tights singing, learning a God my grandparents considered a friend. I am from doubt and questions and using science to quantify. I am from faith.

I'm from the great North-East, daughter of Dutch shoes and German immigrants, of scrapple and home beans and fat, purple grapes. Of daisy-chains and algebraic equations and debate at the dinner table and always, always being encouraged to question.

I am from hand-lettered scrapbooks, rag dolls with button eyes, the hissing of summer lawns and bluegrass festivals, clog-dancing and candy-covered macadamias, celebrations and shared joys and tears and hoopin' and hollerin'.

I have been so loved.


(read this, and do if you wish.)