Where I’m From

I am from photographs and music, yellow smog and buoy bells.
From tugboat honks turned train horns and Golden Books with color pages
I am from the North Hill of my city,
in the Northeast in my state,
the Midwest in my country
in the Western world, of the Late Great Planet Earth.
I bloomed in full view of dark secrets and cussing
and wished for invisibility.
I grew like the dandelion thistle and clover fields,
The stink tree and bachelor buttons growing in holey brick-lined gravel
Whose long stems grew as rangy as me and
the neighbor’s orange dog--Frosty.
I am from a dreamer and a hopeless trauma queen.

Except for a brunette sister whom they teased belonged to the milkman
I'm from yearly family photos and blondes
The top step of six cascading, two girls with four brothers
I'm from oppressive Latin Mass Catholics and liberal alcoholics
few encouragers and too many bullsh--t artists
I'm from middle class and failed rhythm method
And “Someday” sung by Dorothy while she dreamed
from a grey place like me,
Before landing in her Emerald City.

I'm from corduroy coats with wood toggle buttons under costumes,
Looking like Casper the Friendly Pillsbury dough girl
dressed-up for trick-or-treat on a chilly October night
I'm from St. Thomas hospital and Jewish roots hidden
in German-Christian traditions
Sauerkraut with pork loin cooked all day on New Year’s and
ham for Easter dinner
I’m from a very Catholic family replete with nuns and priests
And three sets of Grandparents that left my friends,
Nay-saying and teachers scratching their heads.

I'm from dull aluminum lunch pails,
Crinkly evening newspapers, black and white TV shows.
I'm from "Go wash your hands" and dinner
on melamine cartoon plates at 5:30.
Dinner blessings brought to you by dad, while another baby squirms away
from a spoonful of strained veggies in a high chair,
broccoli in cans, Kool-aid drunk from plastic cups saved from butter tubs
and no seconds on desert.
I'm from "six kids are a birthday party"
and a few toys wrapped in Montgomery Ward bags.
I'm from "Look over here!" Blinding light photo ops.
Click! Bzzzzzt! Zip! Peel away Polaroids that develop while you watch
And using a butcher knife the size of a Machete
to cut birthday slices for wiggly little siblings.

I’m from a giant mirror-backed frame holding Nona’s Hummel’s,
The hi-fi on the mantel playing Sergio Mendez and Neil Diamond ,
The silver percolator on the counter choking
out black coffee when the mornings are dark.
I'm from the days of sedans
with enormous fuel tanks and cheap gas
and the red Ford Galaxy 500 that started me traveling
until I don’t know how many cars or sets of wheels
brought me here, hundreds of miles away from you.