I am from the teal sprinklers that were used with make-believe friends
from the brown bruises from playing too hard
I am from the golden s'mores eaten in the early morning
from the tan sand that was always in my shoes
I am from the navy participation awards hung in my room
from the pink ribbons pinned on my heart
I am from the yellow sunshine in my father's laugh
from the copper taste in my mouth when forgetting to do chores  
I am from the maroon uniform made to look the same
from the blue pens used on countless school nights
I am from the indigo feeling of panic when having to do a class presentation
from the silver markers used to correct me
I am from the lilac masses where we sang our praise
from the cream tub which washed away years of hurt
I am from the grey cookie cutter town where we all act the same
from the chestnut casket that my grandpa lies in
I am from the purple revenge that sickens a siblings bond
from the black hospital which haunts my dreams
I am from the red scars that decorate my body
from the white safety plan to ensure I live another day
I am from the violet sleeping pills
from the orange calming pills
I am from a beautiful painting which one day I will consider a masterpiece

I am from Carmella and Peter, who are from Marie, who gave birth to seven aunts and uncles on each side and unknown fathers who were there but weren't.
From the Native tribes of Cherokees all the way to the Jamaican seas.
From the grandmother, I never met but love so much, from the grandfathers who died before they knew I even existed.
I am from the North-Atlantic Slave Trade, 400 years and counting, spread from the southern breezes of Georgia to the Caribbean waters of Jamaica.
From the robbery of my ancestors, the lynches of my great-grandfathers, the discrimination of my grandmothers and the fight of my parents and the reluctance of me.
I am from hugs and kisses of my mother to discipline and handshakes from my father.
From strict lessons about boys and the harshest of truths about life as a Black woman.
From the many years of Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with families who were always so happy to see me, from the hams and turkeys to the soul food made by my mother's hands.
I am from days with no tv, no heat, no idea about how to get by, but my mother made me feel the richest of rich.
I am from self-taught Christians, who never went to church but serve God as though he lives through them.
From the smartest of women and men who told me to never say "Can't", even as I rolled my eyes and told them I've already done it.
I am from a family of women, strongest I've ever known and compassionate as well.
From women who have beaten down by years of male egos and the darkness of their skin.
I am from the urban city of New York, where in two seconds and a metrocard, I am in the Gold Coast.
From the gentrification of Gates Ave, and the impending doom of it happening to me.
From the projects and two family homes of Bushwick, now turned into high-rises for the wealthiest of New York City.
From the architecture of a Trump tower right across the street from a low-income housing development.
I am from the hard times of depression and anxiety that were overlooked with alcohol and arguments, from the outbursts and crying myself to sleep, to not knowing the real thoughts of my father and what he thinks of me.
From the overachiever of my mother wanting to make a better life for me and me succeeding in her dreams.
From the many pages of poetry, I write to calm the mind and heal the pain.
I am from the generation who hopes to make our ancestors proud as they have made us.

I am from Loony Tunes
And a red, two-seat jogging stroller,
Laughing with my sister
Sitting next to me.
I am from waking up to pigeons cooing,
Glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on distant ceilings.
When everything was new,
And bright, and fascinating.

I am from amusement parks;
Six Flags Picnics in parking lots
Because the food there was too expensive,
We brought our own and sat in the grass
With the ducks.

I am from homemade tortillas,
Fighting cousins and uncles like brothers for
The first one off the stove.
And I am from Christmas tamales
and way too much Thanksgiving turkey.

I am from music,
And the difference between hearing and listening,
And between reading and playing and feeling and living.
And not having a favorite song
Because they are all important
And they all mean something different.

I am from falling in love too quickly
With the girl across the aisle
Across the room
Across the street.
From holding my breath but not my tongue
And letting my mind wander a little too far.
"I don't like you like that"
"Oh that's okay I didn't think so anyway"
Is it wrong to feel too much?

I am from people mispronouncing my name,
Saying "here" before teachers can even attempt.
But I am from knowing I would never change it if I could,
Because if everyone could pick where they come from,
We'd all end up in the same place.

I am from silly sisters, full time moms, and missing dads

From Mexican Railroaders and southern slavers

I am from cramming in and spreading out

From jumping on the bed and sleeping on the sheet

I am from kitten toys and a purple piggy bank

From P.B. cookies and B+s on the fridge[b]

I am from Stam Chocolate

From pizza pie and spaghetti piled high

I am from Birthday Girl picks dinner

From salad dressing bottles and sweet Maine summers

I am from squishy black cat dolls

From the Time Out Chair and Bear Chair Fights

I am from homemade pants that can't be beat

From "Greenback Dollar" and "Unclouded Days"

I am from "Stand up and be counted"

From the Girl Scout Promise and Law

I am from all these things and more

My poem never ending

I am from crazy, extravagant clothes
From the music a little too loud
The bloodshot eyes and long sleeves

I am from slamming doors, screaming and crying
From runny mascara and covered up bruises
The fake smiles

I am from love, too
From a warm home, filled with the smell of fresh cookies
The crinkled eyes and echoing laughter

I am from six Christmases
From an abundance of birthday presents
The millions of Thank You notes

I am from hot and cold
From this house to that house
The four parents and two siblings

I am from others
From what they have done to help sculpt me
The girl who’s done it all

I am from.

I am from
        waking up at 5 a.m.
        and making my dad pour me a glass
        of chocolate milk and put in
        the Tom & Jerry VCR tape.
I am from
        the years spent on stage
        performing, acting, dancing,
        making music from the keys and strings of instruments
        that I have since abandoned.
I am from
        the technology that shaped me,
        which I cannot live without-
        the shows and movies and games; staying up,
        the bright screen of my laptop glaring against the darkness of my room.
I am from
        crying until my eyes are red and raw,
        happy and sad and laughing tears
        from the deaths and lives and breakups and reunions
        of the characters and shows I will never forget.
I am from
        lying in my bed
        listening to the music that has healed me,
        blaring in my ears
        and against the four walls that enclose me.
I am from
        the places I’ve been-
        from La Jolla to Lancaster to Boston and Nanjing,
        to the places I wish to go-
        from Sydney to Quebec to Venice and Chicago.
I am from
        homework and studying and tests,
        and homework and studying and tests.
        Yearning for college since middle school,
         to be around people who crave knowledge, too.
I am from
        Modus Ponens and Modus Tollens and Disjunctive Syllogism,
        and memorizing fallacies and philosophy arguments at 8 a.m.,
        the course that challenged me beyond my limits,
        the course that introduced me to my favorite place in the world.
I am from
        my home away from home-
        lying on the grass of the quad,
        dancing beneath the stars
        to the Canon, the soundtrack of my youth.
I am from
        the memories I hold
        within polaroids and photos behind screens,
        within songs and books and between the lines
        of the poems that I have bled from my heart onto paper.
I am from
        my previous and continuing attempts to escape this town,
        and the meaningless interactions within the cold halls of highschool;
        trying to find the people who will become my people
        and the places I will call home.


                                                         ­                                j.z.