By Lina Lau

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from homemade things

Pizza and dresses and playdough in every colour

I am from the house before the bend,

Small, red-brick, blooming lilacs in spring

I am from a towering maple

Swung in its arms, covered in leaf piles, burnt orange and brilliant

I am from snow forts and blanket forts

Summer road trips across the border

Sand in our bathing suits

From an immigrant father who left home at 20, never seeing his parents

And an immigrant mother, born the only daughter, born to take care of her parents

I’m from big feelings and high expectations

No apologies and silences

From being a disappointment to being a source of pride

I’m from a god passed down to me, but not passed onto my daughters

I’m from moussaka, skordalia, and a jello ice cream dessert that no one remembers the name of

From my grandmother’s treasure chest

Full of hoarded cash saved over years, found after her death

And from cousins died too tragic, too young.

Volumes of photo albums lined up in my parents’ basement

Dusty and full

Every picture dated and labelled

A family of shared lives

Until the memories will be mine alone.

Where to find Lina:

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/_linalau_/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Jeannine Ouellette

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

Fine Woven

I am from overflowing ashtrays, from store-brand cereal and late payments.

I am from steep wooden stairs (rickety, paint flaking, slats of sunlight nourishing the

chickweed).

I am from the ancient volcanic rock, the clear, rolling creeks, both tumbling incessantly

toward Lake Superior, whose cold waters and ocean-sized waves pulse through my

veins like blood.

I’m from democrats and foremen, from Georganne and Alice-Adelle. I’m from chain-

smoking and Johnny Carson, from “Go out and play” and “Get out of my sight.”

I’m from ex-communicated for divorce and donuts after the Lutheran service.

I’m from Duluth and Lampton, baked chicken and apple salad.

I’m from my father’s father who dropped dead from spreading butter on his crackers,

and my mother’s mother who caught cancer from working in the laundry.

But high on my closet shelf are those vintage hats, the ones that belonged to my father’s mother,

Adelle, the grandma who lived, and her sister, Alice, who loved me so.

I am from those hats—bejeweled with feathers and sequins and nets—I’m from their fine-woven

hope for what would someday grow from so much ash.

Where to find Jeannine:

Website: https://www.jeannineouellette.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Meera Vijayann

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from the pages of old journals,

From Bona and black ink, 

I am from wooden floors filled with toys and baby clothes,

(Lemony, fragrant, I can’t quite explain why this is).

I am from jasmines, pine trees, sweet leaves that hold morning dew,

I am from Diwali dinners and unbridled Joy,

From Maloo and Mccombe,

I’m from the kind of loyal you don’t find anymore, the kind of love

that’s deeper than the ocean,

From “Don’t waste your food!” And “Pay attention!”,

I’m from the sound of temple bells and the Saturday choir,

I’m from the backwater breeze that whispers to wet coastal earth,

From soft white rice topped with lentils and mango pickle so hot it burns your tongue,

I’m from all the books that my grandmother read when she had no one and the little blue lines under words that spoke to her, 

I'm from the scent of her dreams. 

Where to find Meera:

Website: https://www.meeravijayann.net/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/meeravijayann/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Christina Mauro

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from the 70's,

From hot Folgers coffee and Lipton’s sweet iced tea.
I am from the house of Garcia with its family photos and the smell of leather saddles and fresh tortillas,

Resilient, tender, the laughter of men sharing their stories while sitting at the kitchen table.

I am from bluebonnets and mesquite trees as far as the eyes can see, 

Fluffy blue petals the height of my ankles daring me to pick them and trees with roots growing deep into the dry earth full of locust shells waiting for my little hands to collect them.

I'm from generations of cattle ranching now lost and big hearts easily broken and rarely mended,

From Eloisa and her Leopoldo and Lois the brave.

I'm from love that knows no boundaries, binding no matter the distance and secrets meant to keep you safe but often leaving you unsettled and pained.

I'm from the beauty of my ancestors and the wild stories I was promised would find me.

I'm from many religions all influencing to form one, my own.

I'm from the people of Spain and the many other European countries who traveled across the ocean, through tears and through bloodshed, to root themselves in what we call Texas, creating these contradictions within this Tejana’s heart.

Tamales and pan de polvo at Christmas, cornbread dressing with too much sage at Thanksgiving making the cousins laugh,

From the strength of women who did not allow the word "can't'' in their vocabulary no matter the language and stood strong in the face of circumstances attempting to break them,

The eyes of my brothers buried deep into books and boxes searching for knowledge,

On my shelves, in my closet, in my drawers and often the chairs sitting next to me, in "sometimes" organized boxes, but always accessible in case the faces I carry fade and I fear getting lost.

I am from the uncles who cradled me until I slept after my father died leaving me with trinkets I often carry in my pockets giving me hope and courage, 

The aunts who kept me fed when my mother was too lost in her own mind or busy with her paintings to remember me 

And my own absolute will to survive and move through strangers who have attempted to teach me to fear.

Where to find Christina:

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/christina.mauro

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Lisa Rizzo

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from the back seats of rusty old cars,

from Crisco and Jell-O.

I am from a lawn stretching to farm fields behind

(bee-laden and humid, smelling of wind and black loam)

I am from the promise of wild rose and lilac

offering sweetness after snow-laden winter.

I’m from watching family home movies.

Our bodies flickered across the screen,

growing and changing in each reel.

And I am from work, always work -

housework and yardwork and laundry

and dishes - doing what must be done.

From Melba Lorene and William Frank.

I’m from their will to survive

and my longing for something I couldn’t name,

sneaking a read under the covers at night.

From Quit your bellyaching and Frogs wish they had wings,

from Do something useful and Because you’re the oldest.

I’m from the preacher saying All Rise

to lead us in Methodist hymns, from watching the clock,

pews hard under my thighs.

I’m from Texas to Colorado to Illinois,

from my mother’s southern drawl

and my father orphaned of family,

weekly cornbread and pinto beans,

and my mother’s famous red cake and lasagna.

From my parents’ mahogany dressers

traveling with us on Mayflower moving vans,

to each new home that - Please Lord - might be the one.

Dressers that still watch over me

as words spool from my pen.

Where to find Lisa:

Website: https://lisarizzowriter.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Rosanna Staffa

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from a blue Atala bike

From Borotalco Roberts and Coty powder #21

the whiff of candy they left in the bathroom

I’m from watching a snowfall from window to window

Old newspapers piled on a chair and a piano.

I am from yellow tramways and small squares with dripping fountains

Sidewalks smelling pungent,

after a Spring rainfall, skunk.-like

I am from Sunday crossword puzzles, and butterflies

at the window,

No hugs.

Lightning bugs in a jar. A stray cat that was secretly mine.

From Magda Sangineto and Ugo Staffa.

I’m from Magda embroidering my dowry, never too early to start, and Ugo the marvelous dancer

who dragged along a trunk of novels throughout the war.

Tolstoy, Maupassant, Dumas.

Eat slowly and sit up straight.

I’m from playing catch with my brothers in front of an abandoned church.

I’m from Neapolitan barons

and Swedish soldiers with blue eyes

I am from Zeppole sweets at Carnival I fried standing on a chair.

From a father who at the front in Albania said yes to switching places for a furlow, and the boat

that soldier boarded sank in the Adriatic sea.

Always rushing early to trains and events, he died very old

and wanting more time.

From a mother with a cascade of chestnut curls

cupping her chin in her hands with serious eyes

who died too young

for me to see her when I look in my mirror.

I took with me from home to home in a battered box:

her thimble and a frayed prayer book, his mess kit and Modiano Neapolitan deck of cards.

A nest of old feathers, I hide them

high on a shelf in every home.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By  Jody Ohlsen Collins

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from doughboy pools and homemade Barbie houses

from Huffy bikes and Helms Bakery donuts.

I am from three sisters to a room and broad green bermuda lawns.

I am from bright sandy beaches and weeping willows

whose drooping green sheltered me from California’s sun.

I am from Coppertone and Sun-In

from Helen and Wes and John.

I am from belting out a tune and scribbling in the dark

from roller skating and tree-fort-building

from fighting at the top of my lungs and finding quiet at any cost.

I am from Bible stories with Mrs. Cluck and anywhere-you-can-take-5-kids-on-a-Sunday.

I am from the Hebjums and Lindseys, a Best at heart with an adopted name

from porkchops and sauerkraut, applesauce and meatloaf

from a father two generations back that made a grown girl flee

and a mother who lived chasing beauty wherever she could find it, rich or poor.

But mostly poor.

I am from luaus and carnivals, beach trips and berry-picking

babysitting and in charge at age 12 and hiding with a book to make it all go away.

I am from those moments of running, singing, writing, hiding, lying in the sun

but never far from the watchful eye of an invisible Father

held in arms more real than scratchy lawns and doughboy pools and donuts and

roller skates.

A Father more present than my own skin, closer than the sunshine on my bright brown hair.

Lover of my soul who was there every meandering minute, keeping time until I came home.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Maureen C. Berry

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from buttercream yellow kitchen walls,

From a General Electric avocado green stove and The Good Housekeeping Cookbook.

I am from the tiger lilies pushing up against the chain-linked fence.

(Orange, erect, between patches of urine-soaked lawn from the dogs.)

I am from the Rose of Sharon

The neighbor’s elm

Whose limbs stole across our yard blanketing pollen

Like snow

Every spring.

I am from Easter baskets and hand-me-downs,

Mary Margaret and Patrick Dixon.

I’m from the “Get that dog outta heres”

And “Be home before the streetlights are on,”

From Sit still! and Hurry up!

I’m from Three Rivers and The Terrible Towel,

Chipped ham from Bob’s Grocery two doors down and tuna noodle casseroles.

From the belt my father wielded like power

From my mother immunizing the sick and poor.

I’m from Bless me Father for I have sinned, Hail Mary Full of Grace, Jesus on the cross

in every room, and candles lit for the deceased and fallen.

I’m from pride and hope—vats of scrambled eggs for dinner, Fish on Fridays.

From the woman who birthed and raised six boys and six girls, mostly alone, with no

regrets.

Where to find Maureen:

Website: https://maureencberry.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/maureenc.berry/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

I am from books and cats and baseball bats,
from Mother’s Milk and Banner Batteries.
I am from the swimming pool in the back yard.
(Deep, shimmering
eyes stinging like chlorinated dreams.)
I am from Oleander bushes,
their poison-laced leaves
bright and fragrant as rose petals.
I am from Christmas cookies and big teeth,
from Butterflies and Carnations.
I am from hand washers
and hand-me-ups,
from sit up and settle down.
I am from spiritual freedom,
endless open paths that led to
one God.
I am from magyarsziren and the Pennsylvania Dutchess of Bucks County—north of
brotherly love,
dark chocolate almonds and ice cream after everything.
From the three engagement rings Nana accepted
at one time,
the bus my mother fled between my fathers.
In my closet was a warm nest
of devoted kittens.
a blanket of unconditional love
to purr my troubled mind to sleep.
I am from these creatures —
graced with magnificent progenal gifts —
morphing from monster to Muse.

Where to find Tonya:
Website: https://www.mstonyatodd.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mstonyatodd/

Where to find Alyson:
Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com
Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from sweet potato noodles

from Shin Ramyun, jajangmyeon, and barley tea.

From the apartment atop a Korean bathhouse

(boisterous, chained, with bees buzzing between bristly bricks.)

I am from the forbidden mango my Po-po sneaks me,

the pulpy fibers cling between my baby teeth.

I’m from incensed family shrines and stocky, 6-foot Northerner frames.

From Yeh-yeh, Po-po, Lao-yeh, Lao-Lao.

I’m from sacrifice, from the left-behind.

I’m from ‘girls don’t fart’ and ‘never talk back.’

I’m from my grandmother’s temples

to the suburban churches, I never belonged.

I’m Chinese from Korea. Forever from the in-between.

A Yankee-doodle riding on a red dragon.

From War, Famine, and Gluttony— I rose.

Nourished by kimbap, potato soup, kimchi, and McDonald’s fries.

I am from Yeh Yeh’s pigeons, whom he fed nonstop in his dementia

until the sidewalks crunched with our noodles. 

Where to find Michelle:

Website: https://www.michelleyangwriter.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/michelleyangwriter/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

by Buick Audra

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I’m from things I didn’t get to choose

Like mango groves and Southern roots

The latter of which, I found out by looking online

I’m from water ballet in Pelican Lake

My cousin Er was other long legs

Our grandmother couldn’t quite see us, so we danced for her ears

I’m from many church basements in the suburbs of Boston

Small Styrofoam cups and hot bitter coffee

I sat with the other kids who knew all the Steps by heart

I’m from forest green platforms, with gills like the car

Owned by my aunt Nancy, kindred from the start

she still says, “I’m proud of you, Bu” each time that we speak

I’m from courage one minute and fear in the next

The twist in the back, the ache in the neck

I’m from “sorry” when I haven’t done anything to be wrong

I’m from sunshine so bright, the brain can’t adjust

From lizards and Banyan trees, Southeastern gusts

The air and the palms call me back, but I rarely go

I’m from harmonies sung by my mom and her sister

From ego that injures and claims not to miss her

It’s none of my business, but I feel it there under my skin

I’m 10 Preble Gardens and Chicago Point Road

Old 147 th and Coconut Grove

A quilt of locations I’ve been stitching all of my life

I’m from Buick and Boey, or “Boick” and “Bu”

From lessons in love and just who is who

Alike and so very different, my brother and me

I’m from choirs and girls and French braids in dresses

From what friendship means outside of our tresses

The sounds of our voices as they became one for a time

I’m from words and guitar parts, and wild disappointment

From jealousy, hurt, and quick bursts of enjoyment

The balance is one I don’t strike, but I ride on two wheels

I’m from Punk clubs and venues, obsessed with dead men

I don’t care much now, and I didn’t care then

I have looked all my years for the women and held up their light

I’m from melodies—mine, and the ones that are sent

From loud rigs and rhythms that aim to offend

I carry the pressure of all the females who were first

I’m from what I inherited and what I did not

I belong to myself; I own what I’ve got

The blood and the bone and the rasp of my one given voice

As the narratives grow and the characters fade

I stand by the music and choices I’ve made

It is the work of my life to be fine with who I have been.

Where to find Buick:

Website: https://www.buickaudra.com

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton

By Gia Ruiz

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from layaways
From generic cola and heartburn causing picante chips
I am from 9 homes in 17 years, on military bases, in the middle of pineapple fields, next to undetonated bombs.
I am from plantains, brown and bruised, then fried, and smashed at just the right time.
I’m from my mom’s lived ghost stories and curly hair and loudest laugh, and elaborate homemade Halloween costumes.
From Juan and Linda and Javier
i’m from holding it in until you explode and cross country road trips, reading books in the car.
I’m from hoping there would be donuts after mass.
I’m from Panama and the Aztecs and the Ancient Publoans, and the White men who liked Brown women.
I’m from fork-pressed empanadas guided by my abuela’s hand, and my mama’s arroz con pollo with the orange box Goya seasoning.
From the desert where my dad did the odd jobs, the shoe shining outside a bar, the catching desert tortoises and bopping them on the head, the hundreds of pounds of picked cotton.
From the tias who had the powers of brujas, always sensing when something was wrong from miles away.
Being the family archivist. I have the papers and the photos, the stories and the secrets. The family’s human confessional. Given to me by everyone for safe keeping.
Packed in old Samsonite suitcases for their next journey. 

Where to find Gia:

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/earnestlygia

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Fox Henry Frazier

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from Susquehanna and Chenango riverbanks,

from rock salt and backyard timber rattlesnakes.

I am from a house with beautiful hearthstones—

smooth, grey, smelling faintly of rain—

and another house, scented with lavender and hibiscus

and gunpowder.

I am from ivy and holly and This berry

probably won’t kill me if I only take the tiniest bite,

and from bitter, but it didn’t.

I’m from horseback riding and I’ll go where I please,

from Kennedy and Frazier. I’m from the grandmother

murdered by the IRA in the front doorway of her house.

From I saw the spirit leave her body and stories of the púca,

I’m from dizzying incense, and which priests we learned quickly

to shy away from.

I’m from Bittersweet Farm and forest horses in a hamlet

named for peonies, from Galway Bay and lost in the Atlantic.

From ham biscuits and jambalaya, from sarmi and dolmeh.

I come from a little girl caught in a riptide & surrounded

by a school of jellyfish, who looked skyward and was pulled

ashore by the hand of God.

Where to find Fox:

Website: https://agape-editions.com/team/fox-henry-frazier-founding-eic/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Maxine Lipner

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from sharing black and white cookies with my older sister at the neighborhood

bakery, where the woman behind the counter knew my mother from way back when

From beads of lemon pledge on wood grain, hard-earned from a printer turned copy

editor’s wages and from the used, slightly dented, silver blue Chrysler that took us on

motel road trips

I am from the new Mitchell-lama coop built atop an immovable rock, pushed there by

the Ice Age

Tall, blond brick, with two curved wind-swept ramps, that at winter’s peak, with head

down, coat tight, tried your mettle

I am from little bonsai trees

The trunks sculpted -- watered and wired by my mother’s artful hands

I am from wishing on eye lashes blown off fingertips and from, “I will spare you my

rendition of Happy Birthday -- you’re welcome.”

From Shirley and from Red, who’s “Christian” name is Irving

I’m from two latchkey kids who wanted a mother at home for their own, to take the

incoming, and I am from a yearning to learn that had one immigrant grandfather

achieving phi beta kappa success in his 80’s

From “Who said life was fair” and from “If you really want it, don’t worry, we will be the

same millionaires.”

I’m from a devotion to science and facts, with no room for immeasurable deities, but

melded with an understanding of the matza ball soup, pastrami on rye, and bagels with

a shmear from whence I came.

I’m from Bronx blocks ringed by family and from the Anatevkas of Eastern Europe –

Seltz and Lemberg, Hotin and Sallopkowitz,

From egg creams on red stools at the candy store and pot roast and kasha vanashkas

for supper

From the grandfather, with the bad heart and the golden hands. The cabinet maker who

built a summer place on the land littered by rocks, that had to be cleared one by one, by

them all. Just one road away from the easy property with the view, never to be shown to

people with accents like theirs.

From garment workers with respect for union labels. The piece worker with the

designer’s eye and the shaky hands who told you the “honest truth.” As well as a tip of

the brim, to the other, the “hatter, whose mysterious illness was diagnosed by a doc

who later steered her pregnant daughter-in-law clear of thalidomide’s treacherous

waters.

From a printer’s “California Case” hanging on the wall, filled with World War II navy dog

tags, Arista pins, show tickets, and an old skate key that once hung around my neck to

tighten the metal clasps onto simple street shoes, transforming them into something

more.

All are pebbles from the original rock, bits from the whole that passed through our

hands – moments in time to be handed down of an instant when things were black and

white like cookies, but also rich with accents filled with color.

Where to find Maxine:

Website: https://www.maxinelipner.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Aly Leavitt

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from diet coke bottles hidden in the closet

From powdered hostess donuts and the big shop truck that drove us to get both from 7-11 after Saturday morning chores.

I am from the tallest house on the block with the colorful walls

and the furniture that never stayed in the same spot for too long, because you can rearrange your furniture when you can't rearrange your life.

I am from the plum tree that filled the air with its natural sweet perfume

whose fruit gave us the perfect quick juicy bite mid horseback rides.

I am from John Steinbeck's "The Pearl" readings that went over our heads at the time, and the old sail boat that sat in the garage that served as our favorite spot to hide

From Gertrude and Virgina

and from hard workers that stood in the lines of the great depression and pulled yourself up by your bootstraps attitude.

From a father who gave up countless hours to others, only to leave his own family too soon. I am from three long hours of church every Sunday morning and reminders after leaving that I am a child of God, and don’t worry about finding a perfect husband.

From homemade wheat bread and grandma's crisp sugar cookies

From my dad massaging my mom's feet from his hospital bed

And from early morning breakfasts at the pantry, best pancakes in Los Angeles!

From an engraved Book of Mormon on my 8th birthday

I am from the moments, from birdy and eagle in the backyard , from ABC donuts, from annual Disneyland passes, from long road trips through the hot Arizona desert.

I am from diet coke and powdered hostess donuts.

I am from the Tommy’s on rampart.

From Saturday matinees at The Avenues

I am from Boyd and Barbara.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Erik Sandstrom

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from the toy bins at the Ben Franklin Five and Dime

From a Mattel Fanner 50 and a tube of Testor’s glue

I am from a tiny bedroom, walls papered with photos from the pages of Car Craft and Hot Rod magazine

Safe, embracing - leaves from the backyard oak brush against my window screen

I am from the onions rotting in Sakata’s field which we hurled at each other on the walk to school

I’m from cramped family road trips in the blue 63 Volkswagen and Ed Sullivan on Sunday night at

Grandpa and Grandma’s

I’m from my father Bill, who dies the year I was born, mom Margie, with two sons to raise, and stepdad

Clint – dutiful, restrained, unknowable

I’m from quiet avoidance and whispered kindness

From “If you fall into Fulton’s ditch, you’ll turn into a buttercup” to “Crying upstairs in a bucket!”

I’m from my Jewish mother and grandparents, being baptized as a Methodist, and survivor of the

Brighton Seventh Day Adventist academy

Born in Denver with a family tree reaching through Sweden and Eastern Europe

From Cheerios with blueberries and sun tea

From Grandpa riding the streetcar downtown to the Western Union building where he deciphered

telegrams; from sitting in the car, reading comics, while mom attended her medical vocabulary classes

I am from the decades of photos – grey and white, Kodachrome and polaroids - stored in containers in

the closet. And my son’s artwork on the wall. His school writing projects and drawings tucked away in

folders for the day he shares them with his daughter.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Emily Withnall
Originally published in High Desert Journal 

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

Claret cup cacti announce themselves in everything I write. This surprised me at first, but it shouldn’t have. I’ve been pierced more than once by their spines. When in bloom, tiny vermillion bouquets dot the dry ground. They are everything I aspire to be.

Papa bartended at Sipapu ski lodge. The lodge looked like it had been built in another century. Only locals skied there. Black widows lurked in the bathrooms, scuttling around the puddles left by wet ski boots. We played Pac-Man upstairs and stole packs of grape Bubblicious and Fireballs. 

There were probably black widows in our woodpile, too. And brown recluses. I knew a girl who almost had to get her leg amputated because of a brown recluse. At least that is what Güero in the ski shop said. (It was a name he’d claimed with good humor.) 

My friends all had crucifixes on their walls, and the Virgin of Guadalupe was everywhere. She graced the hoods of cars, candles, blankets, and T-shirts. She smiled from men's arms and backs. She appeared on matchboxes, stamped tin earrings, and murals. She was a statue everywhere. 

My Girl Scout troop leader had a TV. She let us watch Rainbow Brite, and Care Bears, and Smurfs. One time, she put on Chucky. Chucky killed everyone with a gun. The people took his batteries out, and still, he could kill. They shot Chucky, but he couldn’t die. The people had so much regret and terror. They couldn’t take anything back. Nightmares washed over me each night like the tide.

In the summertime, we picked chokecherries and rosehips on the side of our long dirt road. I ate chokecherries until my fingers looked bruised with purple and my mouth puckered.

Sometimes, I spent the night at Angelica’s house. Angelica had two moms, one Anglo and one Hispanic. I peed in Angelica’s bed once and woke with shame like a fever all over my body. Her moms brushed my ratty hair with a comb that dug into my scalp. They yanked and pulled and French-braided and secured the ends with hair ties with big purple bobbles on them that looked like grapes. I blinked back tears.

The spring wind in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains was cold and relentless and made everyone cranky. I imagined the cacti on the mountainsides hunkering down. Plastic bags whipped through the streets. Madcap tumbleweeds flung themselves across the highway. 

My room faced the alley. I had heard gunshots and police sirens. “West Side Locos” and “East Side Locos” claimed different parts of town, tagging stop signs and buildings with the windows punched out. I imagined people with guns running past my window. A gunfight, bullets rocketing into my bedroom, killing me instantly. I imagined what my family would say about me when I was dead. 

The arroyos were mainly dry, so we walked through them looking for signs of life beyond the shapes water had carved into stone and earth. Fossils. Arrowheads. Horny toads. Sometimes in the summer, the Arts Council offered art classes at the Immaculate Conception School. We painted poems along the river walk to cover the graffiti. Graffiti spread like weeds across our poems. 

Most summers, outdoor watering was forbidden unless we used rain barrels or greywater. In the backyard, packed dirt. In the front, a few yuccas and a juniper bush. They could survive anything.

July thunderstorms came just when we thought we’d never see water again. Clouds gathered in billowing piles, white turning to gray turning to black before they ripped open to release a hard, cold downpour. We ran into the streets, faces tipped toward the sky.

On Christmas Eve, we traveled over Holman Hill, through Mora, and up over U.S. Hill to get to Taos for the Pueblo bonfires and procession to the church. We drank hot cider and stood as close as we could to the fire, listening to the heartbeat of the booming drums.

Once, I walked through Lincoln Park towards the gazebo that smelled like urine. A low-rider slowed on the other side of the park, and a gun appeared through the passenger window, aimed at a man on the sidewalk. I froze. The men shouted. Finally, the car revved and sped off. I kept walking towards my friend Erin’s house, heart in mouth, hoping she was home.

On the Fourth of July, we gathered at Carnegie Park to watch the parade. A mariachi band played from one float, flamenco dancers danced in the street, and men dressed like Spanish nobles from Old Europe rode by on horses. The yellow flag with red Zia fluttered from floats. It was harder to spot an American flag.

I bought purple Doc Martens at Hot Topic in the Linda Vista mall in Santa Fe. A rainbow seat-belt belt, too. And sew-on red lips that read “Kiss My Patch,” which I affixed to the back pocket of my ripped-up jeans. Sara taught me how to steal compacts and mascara at Walmart. You couldn’t take the stuff with the raised, foamy bar codes, just stuff with regular stickers. She showed me where the cameras were and how to turn my back. I eyed the shoplifting warning signs uneasily when we left.

Sara lived in the Enchanted Hills Trailer Park. It was way closer to our middle school than my house, so we’d cut behind Walmart and hop through the hole in the fence. She had TV and I didn’t. We binged on Little Debbie snack cakes and Twinkies and watched Saved by the Bell, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on MTV. 

Like the town, our school show choir was stuck decades in the past. We sang Everly Brothers medleys and Grease medleys and did jump turns on wobbly risers, splaying our jazz hands.

Our friend group consisted of all the people who were too uncool to fit in with the skaters, jocks, ranchers, or nerds. We were the misfits and wannabes. When we were bored, we sneaked through dry culverts with flashlights to avoid anything slimy or dead. We hoisted ourselves up onto window sills and climbed onto roofs of buildings on the tiny university campus. Sometimes, campus security would spot us and put their lights on. We shimmied down the building on the side opposite from where they parked. Then we ran.

Saba was tall like me, dyed her hair bright red, and hung out with the skaters. Mr. King intercepted my note to her one day in English class. He always read students’ notes out loud, and he was triumphant when he grabbed mine. He hadn’t caught me all year. Saba and I smirked at each other as he unfolded it. We’d written it in code. His face darkened. “I’ll read it later,” he muttered. We saw it as payback for making us watch his daughter’s toddler pageant videos. 

The summer that Selena and Titanic came out, I almost lived at the drive-in. I memorized the lines and the songs. “My Heart Will Go On” and “Como Una Flor” became my soundtrack for the summer and for the years that followed. Such tragedy. Such romance.

Abe Montoya went to my high school. Cruising one night, the way I often did with my friends, he sped up. Police lights came on. Scared, he drove faster. They sprayed bullets at him through the back window. Later, the city named a rec center after him.

I’ve always loved cottonwoods and the shade of their broad leaves. I favored one tree more than others. Massive and stalwart, it graced the banks of the Gallinas. Its low, almost horizontal branches offered a place to sit. Sometimes I felt like the tree knew me better than anyone, better than I knew myself.

Sunday was pancake morning. We drizzled maple syrup over stacks of pancakes and listened to powwow music on Singing Wire. 

According to legend, Apache...

By Peg Conway

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from cartoons on Saturday morning,

from Oreos dipped in milk and

Campbell’s chicken noodle soup heated in the copper-bottomed pot

then slurped from the spoon.

I am from the house with brown pillars that reach for the sky.

From the weeping willow tree whose branches, like feathers,

dangle to the ground,

from the ever-present absence that my mom’s death left behind.

I am from coloring books and 24 Crayola shades that never felt like enough,

from pining for the box of 64 that came with its own sharpener.

From Barbie dolls and Nancy Drew,

from Charlotte’s Web and Little House on the Prairie,

from Easy Bake Oven and the Game of Life.

I always went to college and chose a sensible career.

I am from grief unspoken, from so many things not said,

from “GOD DAMMIT!” yelled up the stairs, and Al’s fist

pounding the kitchen counter.

I am from the rosary, from Mary Lee’s blue beads and Julia’s black prayer book.

From hard wooden pews, black lace veils, and nausea-inducing incense.

From, “We’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you.”

And, “But I’m not laughing.”

Where to find Peg:

Website: https://www.pegconway.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/pegmorseconway/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Vanessa King

Inspired George Ella Lyon

I am from chlorine.

From Speedo and Tyr.

I am from the stuccoed ranch on Estero and the poorly-placed box past the gate, too-green grass,

parchment skies, the blast of an oven every time you open the front door. But, hey, it’s a dry heat.

I’m from manicured palms and white-trunked orange, humming with bees my brother was

desperate to avoid. We were warned not to eat the fruit—it was bitter, collected for marmalade,

but I don’t know if that was true. At the bus stop, we chucked them into the street for Kyle to

drive over.

I’m from tension left undiffused and awkward hugs.

From Van and Esther.

I’m from the pokey little puppies and reading well past that one last chapter before bed.

From “if Mer calls after 8, don’t pick up” and “Do you know what an alcoholic is?”

I’m from “male and female, God created them; male and female, we ordain them”, and Bishop

Shahan’s insistence that same sex marriages should receive the blessing of the church. We bless

boats, after all. Love is more sacred than a boat. And the outcry that followed. The “anguish” of

that chaplain from Luke, and gentleman in the black stetson, who rose, took a long draw on his

O2, and declared, “Frankly, I’ve always been more concerned by those who concern themselves

with the way other people make love.”

I’m from Litchfield Park, a desert rat and an Air Force brat, hearty peasant stock, and Cyngs,

buckeyes at Christmas “Move the plate—she’s had plenty” and Caesar salad year-round

From the chance encounter that kept Grandaddy out of Korea— “if I hadn’t caught that bus, I’d

have been another poor sonnofabitch in a body bag.”

The contributions to the war effort that kept Grandpa King assembling airplanes instead of on

one to fight.

What survived the fire—even if my cat didn’t— a lone VHS tucked away in Paris, and the box of

photos under the bed, assembled into albums and distributed to all four of us before we came

unbound.

Where to find Vanessa:

Website: https://www.vanessalking.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vanessaleighking

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Lucie Frost

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from TV dinners, on my dad’s side.

From Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie and Morton’s Turkey Dinner.

On my mother’s, from “health food.”

Homemade yogurt, always plain, and pressure-cooked artichokes.

I am from San Antonio summers.

A one-story ranch wrapped around the swimming pool, decorator-styled, full of liquor,

electronics, and stepmothers, noisy with anger.

Mostly, I am from Guadalajara.

A tile-floored, wooden-beamed, two-story, warmed by books, classical music, and calm.

I am from backyard mango trees, bright bougainvilleas, and field paths to the tienditas.

Fields with high brush, lean-tos, and secret short cuts.

I am from helping in the darkroom and looking up words in a dictionary thicker than me.

I’m from Toomey. I’m from Frost.

I’m from blurting out what everyone is thinking and from becoming expert in every passion.

From “Don’t you ever be dependent on a man!” and “Good God, don’t dog-ear the pages.”

I’m from the Episcopal church on Christmas and Easter and lazy Sundays the rest of the year.

From you can believe or you cannot—you have a thinking mind, figure it out for yourself.

I’m from Texas, from a family of bankers on one side, teachers and linguists on the other.

I’m from steak grilled rare and from tacos al pastor.

From G-Dad, who ran away to Mexico in his old age, forcing Mama to go track him down.

And Uncle Dan, who tried the very same at age 94.

I’m from fierce independence.

I’m from relatives remembered in Día de los Muertos altars, from family portraits hung on walls.

I’m from dark wood furniture passed through the generations.

From Big Joe’s four-poster bed, Lindy’s prayer bench, and Bessie’s china cabinet.

Mostly, I’m from my brilliant, funny-as-hell, foul-mouthed mother.

And that’s a damned good place to be from.

Where to find Lucie:

Website: https://www.luciefrost.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/luciehfrost/

Substack: https://substack.com/@luciehfrost

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Alyson Shelton 

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from bathing suits,

From Ragu and Chanel No. 5.

I am from sandy feet.

(Gritty, crunchy on the floor and in my mouth,

Proof of daily joys.)

I am from kelp, wrapped around my ankles,

scaring friends, but never me.

I’m from a lead foot on the accelerator and

making family jokes out of fresh wounds, 

the ones that still ache with shame,

From Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jim.

I’m from No Pain, No Gains and

You’ll be FINE.

I’m from No Man Will Ever Love You

And You’re Too Smart for Your Own Good.

I’m from New Age Spirituality and lapsed Catholicism.

Word Salad dressed with self-loathing.

I’m from tough Pioneer stock and amnesiac immigrants,

the details of their stories willfully forgotten.

I’m from freshly squeezed carrot juice and

the blast of Binaca Spray inexpertly used to cover

up Coronas and bong hits.

From my brother, who fell from a cliff and died to 

another brother who was shot in the face and lived1

In my closet, stacked and organized sit my 

early memories, showing me how we once

appeared whole, performing a certain type of 

affluent, effortless togetherness.

I search beyond the pictures to remind myself

that our far flung pieces and their inability 

to approach whole now, is not my fault.

It never was.

Where I’m From

By Anonymous

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from an art desk.

From Coors and Windsor Newton

I am from the sun-kissed, come home when the street lights come on Balboa of the 70s.

I am from sandy shores, pelicans and endless horizon lines

I’m from Sunday brunch and life-long friends

From Cookie and Bri

I’m from tear stained pillow cases, unsaid feelings and joyfully singing, “Hello” to hide it all

From “deal with it life isn’t fair” and “do not stop pass go”

I’m from kneel, sit, genuflect and robes soaked in incense

I’m from Golden Gates, hills, trolleys and four leaf clovers

I’m from burrito mixings in the fridge and maxed credit lines at TW Market

I’m from alcoholism, hidden sexuality and broken hearts with enough love and happy memories to out-shine it all.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Ann Kathryn Kelly

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from an Irish Clan’s love,

strong as bedrock, deep as ocean,

the baby in the family almost taken,

decades after baby fat grew lean.

(A bleeding brain tumor, caught before bedrock could crumble.)

I am from a surgeon’s scalpel,

my Superman in a cape of blue scrubs,

who outran, outflew, outwitted

red kryptonite inside me.

I am from dusty dirt roads,

a crooked red barn wearing a rust-streaked tin hat.

A tidy white Cape Cod house

on a remote, windswept hill.

The “City of Brotherly Love” in my veins

left behind at age eight,

as the yellow Dodge station wagon

pointed north.

I am from moonbeam coreopsis and

bleeding heart plants that stand tall in my garden.

Arched stems heavy with

hearts of red

that nod to me on a June breeze.

I’m from candlelit nights singing birthday songs.

Small table, voices lifted,

off-key and giddy.

My siblings crowded ‘round, my father’s eyes dancing.

We bang the table in a tribal

whoop at song’s end, as he taught us.

I’m from Leonard Senior and Leonard Junior,

the former quiet and gentle, the latter forever laughing.

Forever loving, from the grave.

I’m from “Eat the sandwich in small bites,” and

“We can overcome anything when we take it in bite-sized pieces.”

My tumor, decades later, picked from the tangles of my brain in pieces.

I’m from Irish Catholics, centuries long.

In our blood, our hearts, breaking our hearts

as the scandal spread and suffocated innocents.

And we turned not the other cheek, but our hearts. Away.

I’m from Philadelphia scrapple,

the unwanted parts of the pig,

crisp skin, gooey center

of goodness and spices and lard.

I’m from my air fryer,

able to leap tall buildings in a bound and

cook just about anything you can dream up.

I’m from my maternal great-grandmother,

washed ashore from County Tipperary to Philadelphia.

Age 13, expected to work 14

-hour days on a cement floor,

a teen laundress in a “big house” on Philly’s

upper-crust Main Line.

And yes, the soldier’s song is true,

t’is indeed “a long way to Tipperary.”

And, from Tipperary. Especially in third-class.

The girl, Elizabeth, who left mother and father,

brothers and sisters, behind on the “old sod.”

The one chosen to accompany a maiden aunt in steerage,

trying for someone’s—anyone’s—definition of a “better life.”

I am from a lineage of Clans.

The Kelly’s, the Meehan’s, the McGee’s, McCusker’s, the McGinley’s.

Preserved in memory, on film, on tintype,

the nooks and crannies of my Victorian home’s shelves filled.

“Is that really tin?”

“Actually, I read somewhere they used thin iron, not tin.”

Paper-slim, muted, brown-edged and blistered.

Prickly, as thumb brushes metal, caressing

a waxed mustache, precisely curled.

The studio backdrop of ferns and high-back, fanned chair

green and mossy, through the passage of time.

The depths of our lineage an ocean bottom, mysterious.

A sunken ship, glimpsed.

Murky. Irish green.

Where to find Ann:

Website: https://www.annkkelly.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Stacy Mendell

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from the purple banana seat bike,

from slip-on Keds and double knit dresses,

from Piggly Wiggly and S&H Green Stamps.

I am from the 3rd house down on Redbud Drive,

the one with two pine trees shading the drive way,

(Collected as saplings, tended in coffee cans,

eternally scented with Folgers).

I am from the plump stand of Pampas grass in the back corner of the yard,

soft, fluffy fronds we slipped behind for Hide and Seek,

potted petunias and pansies on the back porch

and families of snails and rolly-polys that hid beneath them.

I am from hamburgers on Saturday nights,

and road trips with Hank Williams and Tom T. Hall,

from Dovie Sue and Ruth Claiborne,

I’m from the casserole bringers and hardest workers,

from “Well I’ll be!” and “Isn’t that something!”

I’m from Vacation Bible School

And He Walks with Me and He Talks with Me

I’m from West Texas peanut farmers and East Texas oil fields,

Iced tea, crackers and milk, and Weight Watchers.

From Grandpa’s Volkswagen Beetle that jumped fences

and a Great (times four) Grandmother who once shook hands with Davy Crockett, and later,

moved 5 children and 11 horses 24 miles to a new home when she left her husband.

A folded yellowed envelope holds letters from Great Uncle Edward that tell the story

of a peanut farmer who left his family and his love to die a medic in France

in the biggest battle of World War II,

a leather-bound album tells other stories (in photos and clippings),

that link the strong, far-reaching limbs of our family tree.

I am from stories and photos and myths of people I never met

and I know as well as the color of my father’s eyes,

the words to I’m so lonesome I could cry.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Meg Nocero

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

The Italian-American Dreamer – to be seen and appreciated for our culture’s contributions

The story of my family explored and written about after spending hours in a closet with precious

memories and photos

Cherishing the stories of those pioneers who came before me, celebrating our roots and adding

on to legacy.

I Am From Poem

I am from magical pixie dust and an imagination that knew no bounds.

From hours spent creating dresses and stories around my Barbies and trying my luck at the Game

of Life.

I am from the suburbs of Altamonte Springs walking distance away from a big park with tennis

courts where we spent hours playing and pretending we were Charlie’s Angels after school.

From a beautiful, 5 bedroom home, filled with loud conversations and lots of love.

I am from the sweet scent of roses and the magic of butterflies.

Blossoming and bursting with incredible colors. Flying free, proud of my many transformations.

I’m from an Italian-American family of passionate people and hard workers. Education and

service were values, but love and support kept us tied to each other

From two young lovers, Mary Jo and Michael, the second-generation Italian Americans who

grew up in New York City that were courageous as they set out to create their own story in

Florida away from their families. From an expectation of excellence and an ethos of perfection

passed down for each child to accomplish great things and make the family proud. From

Politicians, lawyers, judges, doctors, teachers, educators—requiring nothing less than a strong

work ethic, each doing their part to serve. From passionate, faith-filled and hard-working people

who set out to make a difference in this world for their children and their communities. From

people who set out to create something beautiful together.

I’m from the intelligent, thoughtful and generous members of my family who paved the way for

increased possibilities of success in the realization of my own dreams.

From everything will be ok when things went awry to don’t disappoint or bring shame to your

family holding still to our greatest potential.

I’m from a Catholic family who believed spirituality and love were the cornerstone of life- more

important than dogma- from people who did not follow and with a whole lot of curiosity and

critical thinking, question everything.

I’m from Florida, but come from Napoli/Sicily and other parts of Italy by way of New York,

where many want to wake up in city that does not sleep and dreams come to life.

From traditional Italian family meals on Sunday after church of spaghetti and marinara sauce –

salad bathed in oil and vinegar and celebrated birthdays with Carvel cake- at the dinner table – as

if around a campfire, we gathered together as master storytellers passing on lifetimes of

traditions and hope.

I come from movies- the pictures that can change the world- stepping into a theater and

immersing myself in a story come to life.

I am made from dreamers and am a realized dream to my parents – I am ready to continue

realizing my own dreams and I risk and take a leap of faith becoming a master storyteller sharing

inspiration with whomever wishes to hear.

Where to find Meg:

Website: https://www.megnocero.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/megnocero

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Elizabeth Heise

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from tumbleweeds

From brewer’s yeast and goldenseal

I am from a little white house on Quiet Lane,

peeling stucco, a deep blue sky, the heavy scent of sage

I am from red chile growing wild behind Ramona’s house

don't rub your eyes or you’ll be sorry

I’m from living with want and joking about the worst of it

I’m from Michael and Kathleen

From no one saying sorry and doing the hard things alone

From “name the person you expect to clean that up” and “I’m running out the door”

I’m from Sunday school at Temple Albert to a pitstop at Unity with Jesus before everything

changed

I’m from San Francisco and Albuquerque

sourdough bread and green chile stuffed sopaipillas at Little Anita’s Takeout Window with

change from between the sofa cushions

From the Leffert Uncertainty Factor

The disappearing mother

baby pictures stuffed in a wrinkled yellow envelope and lost forever

From allowing the painful edges to smooth like sea glass and become something beautiful

Where to find Elizabeth:

Website: https://elizabethheise.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elizabethheise.coach/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Giselle Interiano

Inspired by Geroge Ella Lyon

I am from recycled food containers with leftovers instead of yogurt. 

From watered down dish soap and Vicks. 

I am from mold seeping through the bedroom walls, moist, cold, I CAN’T STOP SNEEZING. 

I am from avocado trees with brittle branches and ripe avocados I pick for lunch. 

I am from winter’s at 20218 Steinway’s cul de sac, from doña Chanda and Mama Gema. 

I am from sarcasm and “you’d be beautiful if only you had my green eyes”. 

From “Calladita te ves más bonita” and “I was born a sinner because of that goddamn forbidden fruit”.

I am from the Land of Eternal Spring, black beans and tortillas. 

From my parents’ marriage before they were of age, adulting overnight, leaving abusive childhoods trying to break vicious cycles, only to get sucked right into one. 

I find old remnants of this girl struggling to find herself. All my journals tucked away in my old bedroom. Forgotten moments and feelings written on purple, flowery journals and composition notebooks. I am from those pages, written to remind me of how strong I really was.

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Emily Brisse

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I’m from backyard vegetable gardens,

from the rhubarb in spring to tomatoes in fall,

from cold cans of Pepsi and red licorice twists,

the long hollow candy doubling as a straw.

I’m from kid-marked lawns 

of crab grass and dirt patches, 

spikey and flour-dry,

from the trees we played beneath–

those two giant pines–

and the birches we peeled,

and the maples we climbed.

I’m from fold-out kids-tables and summer lawn chairs,

from intergenerational games of Pinochle and Pepper,

from olive and pickle trays, to grilled turkeys,

to plates and pans of aunt-made cookies and pies,

from big families, road trips, and Midwest goodbyes.

I’m from The Golden Rule and Jesus Loves You,

from night-time prayers and tucking-in,

and, in the quiet that would follow, from

the way my thoughts and imagination and fears 

and belief created a steady flow of questions.

Who was my great grandfather, adopted?

Who was my grandmother, when she was younger,

on that day she made certain her daddy 

could not torment her mama anymore?

Who was my father, with his radio voice and drawn-in smile?

And who was my mother, really–beyond me– 

with her to-do lists, her busy hands, her too-big plans?

Now, a grandmother herself, she puzzles together our past–

yellowed birth certificates and plotted family lines,

four-hundred-year-old stories from Litchfield

and Denmark and Alsace-Lorraine,

lines of cousins, lists of mispronounceable names–

each detail stored in huge bound books,

and in thin, torn black-and-white photos,

and in letters, still kept in their envelopes, sent during wars.

“Someday, these will be yours,” she tells me,

And, for once, I don’t have to ask why. 

Where to find Emily:

Website: https://landingoncloudywater.blogspot.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/emilybrisse

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

By Alexis Donkin

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from freshly inked paper

From acrylic coated canvas and natural bristle brushes, Lowden guitars and Audix microphones.

I am from skylights flooding into stained glass

Dappling floors and walls with manipulated light, refined and separated, only to pool onto quilts in chaos.

I am from rotting leaves

Mingled with slender needles

Red with rust, returning to the earth, with every underfoot crunch of cool autumn.

I’m from chapters after advent dinners, and dark waves

From Sharp and Stewart

China settings and day trip adventures

From “we need you to do this,” and “we expect better.”

I’m from early mornings, revering daises supporting thrones, where dark robes held books heavier than the paper they bind, edified by thundering organs playing century-old melodies.

I’m from the birthplace of a nation, a line walked between Gaul and taiga

Taking pride in savory sauces that elevate every entree, followed by such addictive desserts, guests wrap more in napkins for the ride home.

I am from a great grandmother singing to peeps all night in a rocking chair,

And another chasing bitterness with Southern Comfort, in a land of black and gold.

Our captured moments lay scattered in albums in a crawl space, plastic totes collecting dust, SD cards, and laptop memories of people we once were.

Volumes upon volumes of my hand-scripted narration, tells a story otherwise shrouded.

I could pretend it was something else, but I won’t.

Where to find Alexis:

Website: https://alexisdonkin.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alexis.donkin/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Tiffany Babb

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from coffee grounds

From cheap maple syrup and Lipton tea bags

I am from the place where spiders hide

chaotic, loud-- where are you?

I am from dandelion blossoms

Heavy with pollen and waiting to travel

I'm from celery and onions 

chopped so fine they're transparent, 

From Eloisa and Chuyi

I'm from laughing too loud and loving too quiet

From "Close the gates so the wolf doesn't get in"

and "Yo mama wears combat boots"

I'm from creaking hymns playing on the radio

late into the night, sung by strange voices 

from another time

I'm from the dry dirt of California

from airplanes and cars taking travelers

to places they've never been before,

new places, to start a life

Rich soup noodles, 

crumbly potato chip cookies

From the stealing of a cake 

from a wedding that had gone sour

The heavily permed hair of the eighties,

aging photos kept in a cracking plastic binder 

of unremembered faces, 

documents that have lost their meaning.

But we watch over them and preserve them, 

knowing that although the faces are unremembered

and the documents have lost their meaning, 

we cannot afford to lose more. 

Where to find Tiffany:

Website: https://www.tiffanybabb.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Aimee Seiff Christian

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I believed I was from nowhere.

I knew I had to be from somewhere

Yet I didn’t believe that until I had proof because

I didn’t know you could be from nowhere and somewhere at the same time

I am also of somewhere. Someone.

I am from subways and sidewalks

From the city that never sleeps.

Gritty, overcrowded, noisy

And wonderful.

I am from pigeons and sparrows

Eating from garbage cans and twittering on telephone wire.

I am from bagels and matzoh brei and my mother’s handmade menorah

From no and because I said so

And you have to learn to play by yourself.

I’m from an innate understanding that I didn’t belong

And the explicit instruction not to ask questions.

I’m from New York Jews

Who were as Jewish as The New York Times and maybe Rosh Hashanah

But not fasting on Yom Kippur or keeping kosher or actually believing in G-d.

I’m 99.9% Northern European, only 26% of which, as it turns out,

Is Ashkenazi Jew after all

Times or no Times.

But it still counts and I am still Jewish.

I am a New Yorker through and through, city born and bred

But if I admit I learned I was actually born on Long Island does it still count?

I am an only child

But if I admit I learned I have four siblings,

Though all of them are half

And none of them talks to me except for one,

Does it still count?

I am born of a teenager and immediately abandoned

Against her will

And mine,

Only to be placed six months later

In the arms of a woman twice her age, with

Nothing but blank space where her heart and her womb were supposed to be

Where a baby did not grow.

She is my mother.

(I am not from there.)

But over the years, we have become of one another

I love my mother

And I know now that she loves me too.

I am not from her

But I exist nearby her

From somewhere else

From someone else

But we are closer now

Closer than I ever thought possible.

I am from learning and growth.

Where to find Aimee:

Website: https://www.aimeechristian.net/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thewriteaimee

Substack: https://aimeechristian.substack.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Judith van Praag

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from one knife cuts all,

Red leather sheath protecting blade and fingers

From Sunlight soap, Potassium Permanganate and Vim.

I am from “met de Franse slag,” clean enough for the eye,

Artistic, Bohemian, a raven’s nest.

I am from reading under the elms

Dandelion stains, daisy chains and horse manure

(earthy, solid, fertilizing).

I’m from New Year’s Eve starting the morning of the 31st

Red beet haring salad, canned salmon, jenever, and refusing to kiss.

From JP with the golden hands and twenty years younger doe-eyed Nita

I’m from volatile and patient, patient

From Passover Seder to Christmas carols and atheist prayers.

I’m from the sandy North Sea beach and Prague in the east

I’m from slow cooked offal, snapping beans and

Peeling oranges and apples countless ways

I’m from coffee black, or au lait, mocha cake and kugel with pears.

From the grandmother with a black purse,

The other who refused to wear the cloak of mourning

Young widow with three teens and a twenty-year-old

After the flu of 1918 took her husband without warning.

I’m from diamond cutting, quatre mains, and pencil pushing

I am rough, hiding and eager to shine.

Where to find Judith:

Website: https://judith-van-praag.pixels.com/

And https://www.dutchessabroad.com/index.html

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Kelly Burch

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from books

From cardboard boxes of them, piled in the attic and garage

I am from the hedges

Wild, unruly, sheltering kids and wasps

I am from a towering pine tree,

Rope swing whipping through the air, kids screeching with joy, or terror

I’m from impulses and big dreams

From William and Walter

I’m from insistent opinions and passionate arguments over the perfect Christmas tree

From Taylor Rabbit and Painted Horse

I’m from pre-bed prayer circles and early-morning meditations

I’m from The Lake

Smore’s, and Ziti (always with lines)

From my grandmother’s yearbook wish for a dozen children,

My mother’s courage to protect her four,

Boxes turned to crates, unfinished manuscripts

Brushing off the stains and picking up the pen.

Where to find Kelly:

Website: https://kellyburchcreative.com/index.html

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Angelique Gagnon

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from sheet music,

From bacon grease saved in glass jars and Land-O-Lakes butter.

I am from the brown Victorian house that

by outward appearance never reached its full potential,

(2-story, kept at 65 degrees, in the sub-zero winter.)

I am from the Lily of the Valley,

delicate, late birthday gift of Spring,

whose aroma I secretly wished I could embody.

I’m from the Christmas tree going up after Thanksgiving dinner

and letting music move our bodies.

From Alverta Mae and Ulysses Duke.

I’m from the daily giving of hugs and kisses,

and long explorative conversations.

From “sparkle plenty!” and “you’re my pumpkin pie.”

I’m from the small generational Episcopal church,

the Guild of the Black Madonna,

Miss Mabel sharing butterscotch candies,

and the lighting of four purple Advent candles.

I’m from the Twin Cities and

the Corams who chose not to “pass” for white,

slow-cooked collard greens and

plastic gallon buckets of Kemp’s ice cream.

From the sobering talks in teenage years,

struggles with alcoholism on both side of the family,

and my mom’s deliberate directive to change that genetic expression.

The old-time-y tunes, hummed

accompaniment to step wet feet on a towel’s edge,

while her grand wrinkled hands used the rest to pat me dry.

In the living room on a bookshelf of reclaimed wood

are three intentional photo albums my mother assembled

months prior, in anticipation of her final days.

For arms that can no longer hold me,

mouths no longer tell stories,

my eyes can still meet their still captured faces:

pages of life that rise into mine.

Where to find Angelique:

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/angelqtwo/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

By Mesa Fama

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from ink and paper,

From Folgers coffee and Coffeemate vanilla creamer.

I am from the clover patch next to the concrete driveway.

(Dewy, earthy, a soft spot in the hard grass.)

I am from the oak trees

Whose surety in trunk and steadfastness in roots lined the road and guided me to  my mother when my aunt was lost and couldn’t remember the way.

I’m from Sunday dinners and addiction,

From Doreen and Diana Kaye

I’m from the needing to be rights and never wrongs

From “Use your inside voice” and “always make good choices”.

I’m from question everything and Mormons who never did.

I’m from dirty Vegas and the Wilkerson’s,

Dry roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies.

From the addiction riddled father and mother who lost their lives to separate suicides 23 years apart – my father on Christmas eve 1995 and my mother 3 months before my 30th birthday in 2008.

In multiple cardboard boxes live pictures in bags, albums, and frames of a family history that was often a façade filled with secrets that would be revealed upon the deaths of my grandmother and mother. The lost loves, deafening silences, and soul crushing judgments behind the carefully curated smiles.

I am from the spaces between the judgements and contagious silence, the product of ties that bind but am somehow always left behind. I foraged through the boxes to find myself and looking for a place there, instead I found my voice within and made a space for myself in a life that’s all my own, no longer seeking approval that will never come from the faces in the frames.

Where to find Mesa:

Website: https://www.mesafama.com/

Substack: https://substack.com/@mesa

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/