I am from

My friend E. sent me this wonderful poem exercise, which is essentially a form of mad-lib style poem making. I had to stop everything so I could write my version right away. If you want to see the template so you can write your own, go here

Here is my poem:

I am from Fry Daddy, from powder puffs wafting silvery talc powder and Prell shampoo.

I am from the doll’s house, with its pink, push-button stove and counters, laundry chutes, sloped ceilings plastered with Duran Duran posters where I wrote the names of my crushes on the bottom of my desk chair.

I am from the Sycamore, the Linden, and the Elmwood, from Cazenovia creek, that wound its way past the cemetery toward Burger King, stinking like a sewer, from Sinking Ponds and four-leaf clovers.

I am from Amazing Grace in the kitchen, and maple spread, from Ruthie and Lois and Floyd. Audrey and Bud. Always an auntie, never an aunt.

From “practice makes perfect,” as I trudged toward ice skating or swim practice, and “you have to call them, even if they don’t call you,” when my heart was broken and lonely.

I am from speaking tongues in an evangelical church, kicked out of catholic school for wearing sideburns, asking the Sunday school teacher to define a virgin, and being stoned to death while spreading the message of Christ.

I’m from Motown and Staten Island, from Sweden and Deutschland. Pickled pig’s feet and liverwurst with mustard, Foosh soup, and little chicken, little salad.

From the stubborn toddler pouring a beer in her mother’s shoe to get attention, the ambitious girl who sold homemade potholders for change, the young woman who escaped her younger siblings by going to church.

I am from refrigerator door, dry sink, battered shoebox.