I Am From
I am from the culture of the crashing waves against the jagged rocks of the shore, while churches sing their songs.
As well as from the culture of ancient prayers echoing among the sun-soaked streets and the hum from bustling bazaars.
The cultures which intertwine so effortlessly, yet mangle each other like a thorn drawing against the skin.
From my father who is strong and determined, scars covering his brown-skinned body, telling the stories of his childhood on the island.
From my mother, who is gentle and caring, scars that veil her damaged heart, telling the tales of her Islamic upbringing.
I am from a home where love overpowers all, no matter the sound of shattering plates, slamming doors, and yelling echoing down the hall.
Where food means forgiveness, whether the savory steak or the mouth-watering chocolate cake.
I am from the prolonged nights on the road in the mountains; the soaring heights that made my stomach churn any time we neared the edge.
The sharp, distinct smell of wet evergreen trees, bark, and mud filling the cramped car with the windows down.
I am from a sweet yet pungent smell of gasoline that would overwhelm the nose at every stop.
From the lingering lysol mixed with urine in the bathrooms, where the toilet lids were fragile and damaged.
And from the foggy, clouded mirrors that were marked with streaks from harsh scrubbing, that no amount of Windex could fix.
I am from the meals of Subway and gas station sandwiches. The crispy lettuce that was no longer crunchy, but soggy and tough to chew.
I am from the crumbs of chips flooding the car seats nestled underneath the plastic bags and wrinkled up saran wrap.
The frigid air swarming the car as soon as the windows creaked downwards,
The soft yet rugged blanket I kept with me, covering my small body,
The body growing with every move we made.
I am from the crowded hallways where laughter and voices echoed through corridors.
Where people migrated in flocks, like birds swarming the vibrant blue sky above the school.
I am from the irritating ringing, not to dismiss us, but to remind the teachers.
I am from the sleek, smooth papers that were textured with tiny ink letters.
From classrooms engulfed with deodorant far too rancid to rid their body odor,
And the perfumes where the alcohol overburdened the fruity scent.
From the giggling and snorting amongst friends at the circular tables,
To the salty, stingy tears and quiet sobs that reminisce the quiet winds in the woods.
From the sugary fruits we would pass around after hours of our stomach rumbling like a broken machine.
To the crammed gymnasiums where athletes and parents alike would flood the moments the doors open.
The early mornings where our bare skin made contact with the chilled basketball court.
From the numbers that flash a watermelon green, guaranteeing us our spot to wrestle.
To the moment our shoes step onto the mat, the whistles blowing and coaches screaming,
To the teammates cheering on the mat, celebrating a win
From the mixture of the tangy sweat and tears that drip down our bruised and damaged bodies,
From the wins and losses that weigh heavy on our heart, like a boulder crushing against our chest.
The lessons that we learn through discipline and hard work, to the family we have through bonds not blood.
I am from a place of love.
Where home was not a structure held by wood and nails but rather the relationships we built.
The branches of genetics and connection rather than the materialistic buildings.
I am from a place where holidays were not needed to spend time together.
A place where the houses and parks were filled with howling and chuckling of childrens and adults alike.
Where the aroma was filled with a citrusy spice, hot like the grill's flame.
Our relationships intertwined like the baskets we weave from the leaves from the trees.
From a culture where respect was a given not a privilege,
The aunts and uncles who were merely childhood friends,
Those aunties who wore flashy gold jewelry that clanked against each other each time they wave their hands,
To uncles who wore their colorful i’e because they couldn’t fathom wearing pants at home.
Where passing by an elder prompted a quiet “Tulou” as you bowed whilst walking,
A place where names like “sosisi” and “valea” were terms of endearment rather than insults.
A place where love can spread thousands of miles, across the powerful ocean.
From a place where our family is our pride, and our pride determines our family.