What I’m From

I saw this meme, if you want to call it that, here. I’m not positive of how to work with it, but we’ll see how it turns out. If you want to try, there’s a template for this exercise, which you can find here.

I am from San Francisco Sourdough bread on picnics, from the smell of bacon in the morning, and saltine crackers and kool-aid as an afternoon snack.

I am from 7-11 and Tower Records on Christmas day, my money burning a hole in my pocket.

I am from the many houses over the years…a homestead outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, with no running water, and coal or oil for heat…a house in Campbell, California with French doors from my bedroom into the back yard, which had fruit trees, maybe apricot and plum…from a crummy duplex in Stockton, where I couldn’t walk to 7-11 by myself without worrying about being mugged.

I am from Oak trees on the hillsides, Eucalyptus trees, and Almond orchards in bloom. I am from fresh cherries off of the cherry trees, and watermelon in summertime. I am from knowing which way is north because of the moss on the side of the trees, from hunting for blueberries and cranberries in the woods. I am from knowing that you never come between a mother moose and her young. I am from having a best friend who has four legs and bad breath.

I am from buying your own first car and paying for your own insurance, from helping the family out when necessary, Saturday chores and Sunday picnics. I am from the love and support of my mother, my brother, and my grandparents, who thought the sun rose and set on me at times.

I am from ‘People are not for hitting’, ‘If you’re going to behave like animals, go outside and be with them”, and “It’s not the grades that are important, but what you learn.”

I am from an atheist mother, a Quaker father, and many Puritan ancestors way back when. I am from suffragettes and slave owners, freedom marchers and those who would hold them back.

I am from Berkeley, California, Amherst, New Hampshire, Herndon, Virginia, backwoods West Virginia, and mother England. I am from roast pork that you slaughter yourself, curry so hot it burns your mouth and makes you cry, turkey so dry you have to douse it in cranberry sauce in order to choke it down, and mashed potatoes made from a box.

From the my great great grandmother, who was raised by her grandmother and great grandmother after her parents died, her father in the civil war, her mother shortly after. I am from my grandmother, who lost her first husband when still so young, and almost lost her children as well, but fought the only way she knew how to get them home with her again. I am from my great grandfather, who brought his shotgun with him when he patrolled his oil fields, looking for game to hunt for dinner. I am from strong, everyday folks, who believe in the power of honesty and integrity, and in working hard for what you have.

I am from boxes of photos in my Grandma’s house, albums tucked away, pictures with no names on the back, identities lost, but their genes still running strong. I am from the photo of my Great Grandfather in World War I, or he and his sister, for whom I am named, with he in his uniform, and she looking afraid that she might never see him again.

I am from all of these…they course through my veins and pop up at unlikely times. They flavor my decisions and my opinions, but they are not all of me. I am from falling in love at 21, going to school and marrying and buying a house. I am from living in San Francisco, land that I love, and having friends who mean more to me than some of my own family. I am from cool foggy days in August when the valley swelters, hot humid nights in Philadelphia when the fireflys burn, and afternoon naps with my husband and child. I am all of these things, but they are not all of me.