Singing and Searching

I am from mix tapes, from Barbies, and pegged jeans.

I am from the nation's breadbasket, alive with color and blossoming with migrant farm workers.

I am from the orange groves, the endless sea of corn and cotton.

I am from weekends of slowcooked pasta sauce and alcoholism, from Cora and Lucretia and the Ross Family Clan.

I am from boisterous singing and always searching for things to fix.

From you'll never amount to anything and I'm your mother I'll abuse you if I want..

I am from Maranatha charismatics and disciplined Methodists.

I'm from a cracked golden center, people who hid faerie wings on trips through Ellis Island, from homemade Chicken Diablo and canned Beefaroni.

From women with perfect coiffures and screaming matches when they'd drink too much, from Dad's Bible stories, swamp cooler lullabies, and Sock of the Month Club.

I am from photographs torn in anger, as broken as our hearts that may never heal, from antiques piled behind polished wood and glass, from stories we've heard a thousand times and will beg to hear again.