Where Are You From?

Where are you from?

I'm from south Louisiana. Even though I haven't lived there in 20 years, and even though I'll probably never move back there, it's still home.

Many moons ago, back when I was a young-ish blogger and a recent transplant to western North Carolina, a meme(?) went around in which people would use poet George Ella Lyon's "template" to write their own "Where I'm From" poem. So of course I had to partake. I posted the poem on my old blog, but I'm posting it here as well (even though re-reading it just now made me cringe a little bit). Here is the poem I wrote. 

Where I'm From

I am from coffee grounds,

from Fisher-Price little people and bleached clam-shell driveways.

I am from the slant-roofed playroom,

the green carpet and the brown braided rug,

littered with toys and tiny shoes.

I am from the pair of hickories in the back yard,

thick, woody roots intertwining,

killed by blight one summer after we moved on.

I’m from braided bread wrappers and

stewed chicken served on TV trays at Christmas.

I am from Baxley and Gamble,

Didier, Gilbert and Barlow.

I am from the sound of Daddy's whistling,

And Mama singing Jesus-songs as she rocked me to sleep.

I am from the clean-plate club,

and milkshakes at Burger Chef after the dentist,

and nectar snowballs on steamy summer afternoons.

I am from Bible Discoverers and weekly verses,

sultry summer mornings in line for Bible school,

and baptism in a tennis dress, before a dressed-up congregation,

one bright Sunday morning when I was six.

I am from the river’s edge and flooded streets after rain.

I’m from the grassy green levee,

dotted with fire-ant hills and smelling of fresh cow-pies.

I am from Plaquemine, half-devoured

by the hungry Mississippi,

five buried blocks now scattered beneath her muck.

I am from filé gumbo and jambalaya,

Community coffee and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

I am from Mardi Gras costumes, with

fallen sequins replaced in a pinch with the hot-glue gun.

I am from black-watch plaid jumpers and navy-blue shoes

bought at Tic-Toc, or Duffy’s, on a Wednesday afternoon.

I am from the tiny attic with wall-posters,

school papers, and construction-paper art—

memories now shipped, some of them, to Carolina,

or stored for safekeeping in the cabinet below the television,

in yellowing albums with pages grown sticky with age.

Scout and me, on a trip back to the homeland several years ago.