I’m From…

I’m from hardy German stock, farmers who moved to rural Michigan way back when it was just a baby state, before Detroit collapsed and the Tigers won the World Series and the city burned, burned, burned, with an ironic hint of the hard days that lay ahead.

I’m from put up or shut up, strong men and submissive women, teachers and god-fearers and stoic sweaty faces.

I’m from the place where deer run free amidst shimmering golden tassels and bright green stalks of corn, from the pond my Grandpa stocked with bluegills and the rowboat on the side of the wobbly white dock where I learned to fish but refused to bait my hook with worms. I always rooted for the poor fish, hoped they’d get away, an animal lover even then.

I’m from the fieldstone-speckled farmhouse with the black shutters and welcoming back porch, screened in so the skeeters wouldn’t get you, fresh peaches and pears sliced juicy on the table with the plastic crimson and white checked tablecloth and sticky folding chairs.

I’m from the big red barn where the cows used to live but were long gone by the time I came around, where corn was king and tractors roamed the land, mighty and proud, puffing stinky smoke into the crisp blue air.

I’m from fiercely loyal brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins, all living within a stone’s throw from each other in the places their parents lived and their parents before that.

I’m from the place where God Is Love and Jesus Saves, except if you’re black or gay or Muslim or just a girl with a strong will and an independent streak who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.

I’m from Sunday dinners, all of us packed around the long walnut dining table next to the picture window that looked out onto the grape arbor and the dog pen.

I’m from long ago and very far away.  I’m from ties that bind and hold you so tight it’s nearly impossible to break free.