I Hate This Question

*This is an adapted poem from George Ella Lyon*

I am from never enough food in the pantry,
From thrift store towels and secondhand furniture,
I am from the never completely fixed home,
And bacon sizzling on Sunday mornings that begin at noon.
I am from the sun that insists on setting,
And the long-gone blackberries in our garden,
Whose taste still lingers on my tongue.

I'm from late night arguments and reserved natures,
From mi Mama and my Dad
I'm from not talking enough and awkward hugs,
And from reading in solitude, day-dreaming of what's beyond these walls

I'm from you're useless and other words not to be repeated,
And watch out he's drinking tonight.
I'm from pretending like everything is okay,
I'm from the United Kingdom and Italy and an unheard of town in Virginia,
And Mom's spaghetti and Dad's scotch eggs.

I'm from 22 years, coming home from college,
Mom is in the kitchen, Dad is on the couch,
The fire is ablaze in the wood-stove,
We are worlds apart as I straddle two identities as I realize,
I'm from simply wanting to answer,
Where I'm from.