(Her)story
I come from Barbie doll concentration camps, from adolescent boy hormones and GI Joes, from being tied to the maple tree, the snap of rubber bands hurtling toward my eyes.
I come from King Midas, from the moon of Endor.
I come from the crisp mountain air, from kitchens and cinnamon and Atticus Finch.
I come from “I am not enough “ and “Why can’t we all get along?” and from roller skates and the duck pond.
I come from clean sheets and sunrise, from funky socks, and Flathead cherries.
I come from being the enemy to becoming the little sister who needs protecting.
I come from Christmas tree lights, and Sunday school, and Wednesday night Sunday school, and the Poisonwood Bible and questioning and god DAMMIT I came home from the hospital in a giant Christmas stocking—shouldn’t that count for something?
I come from the ocean, even though it terrifies me. I come from dolphins and jellyfish and rescuing baby sea turtles.
I come from paper airplanes and burning asphalt, from jet fuel and Cessna 172s and Neptune P2Vs.
I come from banned books, from raised eyebrows, from gentleness.
I come from the holes in the walls, from vinegar and resilience.
I come from captivity, from “I don’t give a FUCK how you like your corn on the cob!” From darkness, and fear.
I come from the numbing steel of a 45, from “This is not ok. You need to get the fuck out!”
I come from cacophony, from ebony and ivory, from suppressed expression, from rediscovery and hypocrisy.
I come from the Wrong Side of History. From shedding my chameleon skin. From breathing…in…and out…
I come from words, from white citrus tea, from optimism, from wonder.
I come from the rise and fall of my daughter’s chest, sleeping, her heartbeat echoing mine. I come from gratitude. From Temet Nosce.
I come from a blind date. From the war on carbon, and the war on Vietnam.
