I come from a land full of lullabies,
of tenor saxophones,
and of photographs.
I come from scrapbooks made to save the memories,
from square patches to save the
clothes, and
bobby pins to save
the hair.
I come from sand and sea breezes,
from rope ladders and monkey bars,
from tire swings
and tennis balls,
from jump ropes – one end tied to a chain-link fence.
I come from many colors:
from the
grey pavement of the street outside;
from a yellow kitchen,
filled with the
warm smells of
curry and golden-brown
Polish bread baking,
and blue marshmallow birds
on the green
tablecloth in April.
I come from heat and humidity,
a blackness that people still see as
stupid,
and accents that
to most will
sound like
gibberish.
I come from soft paisley comforters,
pink
bedroom walls –
the paint that was not rolled, but
sponged on,
over the floral wallpaper.
I come from a little plastic ballerina,
dancing to the tinkling
of a jewelry music
box.
I come from beneath the ballerina,
where there was a tiny plaque of
gold
engraved with my
name in capital letters.
I come out from under the safety of tents built with Karl
in the
living room: blankets pulled taut over bookcases
and the arm
of the tufted, forest-green loveseat,
and
pillows from everywhere strewn about the red-carpeted floor.
This was my home. This is where I come from. This is what I know.
