I am from places that matter to no one and from names that mean nothing.
I am from a home with warm kitchens and lonely dinner tables.
I am from floors you can eat off of. And mouths spewing filth.
I am from streets once flanked with Elms and a backyard where my mother planted marigolds and grew tomatoes.
I am from hands that heal and words that hurt.
I am from “If only you lived up to your potential” and “never good enough.”
I am from saints and sinners; the faithful and fearless. Where confessions are not forgotten, because forgiveness does not exist.
I am from a language I cannot speak but whose words I understand.
I am from reflections I can’t stand to see and images I may never stand up to.
I am from rough hands, tough love, good food and sharp tongues.
I am from:
“I did not raise you to be a ____.”
“You are just like your ____.”
and “¡Qué jodienda coño!”
I am from capias and Woolworth family photos. I am from both parents but my father was hardly around.
I am from a small family with too many relatives.
I am from friends who’ve replaced family.
I am from names I should have never been called.
I am from poverty and prosperity. I am from places to be ashamed and from people I am proud of.
I am from contradictions and cliches.
I am from everything I was never meant to be.