This poem is the result of two experiences I had this week.

On Monday I tutored a woman for the GRE. She is 55, White, and from middle America. She is very nervous about her test. A while into our session, she said to me, "You are very calming. Where are you from?" I wasn't really sure how to take that. Was she assuming that I was from some exotic Asian land and was bringing the inherent calming effects of my supposed culture? Or was she just asking a question? I still don't know. My answer is in the last line of this poem.

Then last night in class we actually had to write "I am from" poems. It was kind-of odd that this came up after my experience on Monday. We wrote them together, and we didn't have a whole lot of time. But after last night, I felt moved to write my own "I am from" poem.

I don't know that it's complete. I don't think it will ever really be complete. But here's what I came up with.


I am from . . .

. . . a sugar cane farmer on a far away island
. . . an owner of a fleet of fishing boards on the Pacific Ocean
. . . a man who died in an unknown village in China
. . . a devout member of a Catholic parish in Spain
. . . families torn apart by a war
. . . grandparents who dreamed of more for their children
. . . parents who saw education as a golden ticket
. . . someone who could see opportunities on distant shores

I am from . . .

. . . a preacher at a tent meeting on that same far away island
. . . a colporteur who sold books door to door
. . . a group of young believers who longed for the return of their savior
. . . a pastor who preached grace without extending it to others
. . . church members who threw me away when I was deemed no longer useful
. . . a God who loves unconditionally

I am from . . .

. . . a collective of teachers—Mrs. Croak to Dr. Lalas—who imparted me with their knowledge—and lack of knowledge
. . . a science teacher who played H-O-R-S-E with me during P.E. rather than traumatize me with team sports
. . . a vice-principal who saw potential rather than mediocrity
. . . a professor who asked, “What was it like growing up gifted?” (to which I replied, “I was?”)

I am from . . .

. . . people in a city that places youth and beauty above all else
. . . aunts, uncles, cousins, second- and third- cousins, once-, twice-, thrice-removed, who arrived one after the other
. . . a family that must answer the question, “May I speak with Dr. Repique?” with “Which one?”

I am from . . .

. . . hundreds of students, who gave me more than they could possibly know
. . . groups of dedicated teachers and students who shared their hearts on Kairos and Emmaus
. . . principals, vice-principals, and department chairs for whom potential donor dollars were worth more than people
. . . colleagues—devoted and not---who inspire me with uncountable reasons to walk into a classroom

I am from . . .

. . . an unexpected friend who challenged me to be better than I was
. . . another friend who knew how to use my gifts without making me feel used
. . . new classmates and professors who are teaching me to become a superhero for educational justice

 
Where am I from?

I am from . . .

. . . here