Where We’re From
Collaborative poem by Ms. Nuzzo’s eighth-grade English class at I.S. 228
We’re from drawing hopscotch
on the sidewalk and scraping knees,
from a piano whose keys are so delicate,
from the room where we whisper baby songs.
We’re from a place where we yell
at the top of our lungs,
from a big brown tree in the backyard,
a place to play and pretend,
a place where we enjoy watching
each sunrise and sunset,
a place where we don’t have to hide
and are out in the open
where we sing Amazing Grace…
We’re from getting up in the morning
and smelling the fried rice,
from salads at every barbeque,
from a big metal teapot,
from the soups our grandmothers made
and fresh ma la zuer
and falafel
and arroz con leche
and baked macaroni and cheese
and kasha in the morning
and fish with soy sauce.
We’re from “TOO MUCH SALT”
when we add a very tiny pinch of salt,
from a family where we tell each other everything,
where someone always says “Metti la giacca”
no matter what the weather.
We’re from “You’re lucky to have parents like us”
whenever we play victim,
from every “Te amo” after fights,
from the black ruffle in my braids
that trail along my back, dark
but simply gentle in any light,
the summery streaks of golden
in my mother’s laugh.
We’re from Hi, Hello, and Bye
where massacre lurks right around
the corner, where we must
calculate the risks of being shot
running scenarios in our head
“What would I do if…”
We’re from under the blanket whenever
our thoughts and emotions prevail,
from a wobbly hammock of bedsheets
that can’t hold our weight,
from distant words like a glass of water,
from trees to paper listing everything I see…
We’re from a country whose language
we’ve yet to learn, where they love to play soccer,
where they play outside
and no they don’t need a locker,
where I travel by air
to get to our sacred land…
We’re from a home where the plants
are thriving in the window,
where we live, eat, and sleep,
a neighborhood where
cats jump over sidewalk cracks,
where we understand that so much
is on us, yet
we still feel immature and little sometimes…
Like a flower growing in the dark
we suddenly bloom
together, anything is possible
La vida es un cyclo
a place where the music blasts and nights last.
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