Where are you from?Posted: September 2, 2013 Filed under: motherhood, parenting, poetry | Tags: humor, Motherhood, Parenting, poetry, Writing 14 Comments
My son’s first assignment from 6th grade English was to write a poem about where he is from. Poetry does not come easily to the literal-minded 6th grade boy, especially a literal-minded 6th grade boy who doesn’t like to write. We ended up working together on this poem for nearly two hours. And in the end, he did it. He didn’t like it, but he did it. I and thought his poem was great. (Don’t worry – I am not going to make you read it.)
The poem he was asked to write was based on the famous poem Where I’m From, by George Ella Lyons. Apparently, this poem is used as a teaching tool in schools and writing workshops all the time because it has a very definite structure. The framework of the poem is always the same; but each individual poem written by using it, vastly different. Having never taken a creative writing or poetry class, I had not seen this poem or template before – so of course, felt I just HAD to try it. My son thought I was insane. (This is not new.)
My poetry writing over the past 20 years has been limited to 2 categories: the multi-stanza-sorority-girl-bridesmaid-toast, and the limerick. Poetry with a capital “P” would spit in my eye. This was the first time I tried to write a real poem – maybe ever – and indeed, the framework and structure of the Where I’m From template made it feel manageable. I’m putting a link to the website where you can get the template, and I’d encourage any of you out there who think this might be fun, to give it a try. I really enjoyed this. Even though I’m pretty sure Poetry with a capital ‘P’ is rolling its eyes at me right now…
I am From by Jill Orr
I am from orange shag carpeting and dark wood floors, neon sculptures, stained-glass windows, and harvest gold refrigerators. From wide suburban streets, lined with tall old trees and faded chalk four-square courts. I am from radiators and asbestos in the basement, from the first house on the block to get a microwave.
I am from watery eyes and serial sneezes, from bug-bites and itchy grass. From grape Benadryl and asthma attacks and freckles and sunburns. I am from staying inside whenever possible. I am from air conditioning.
I am from family vacations in wood-paneled station wagons and silent laughter in the way-back, from my Mom who always knew the latest, best thing and my father who told me the truth whether I wanted it or not. I am from my sister who understands this all without me having to explain. I am from one family split slowly, painfully, into two.
I am from spending every other weekend in the city playing long games of gin rummy with my dad, from watching my mother rebuild her career, from vicious fights with my sister, to seeking refuge in my friends. I am from closing my door and writing it all down.
I am from “You can do anything you set your mind to,” and “Don’t take yourself too seriously.” From I love you’s not spoken, but never doubted. From the security of “I’ll always be here if you need me.”
I am from those Jewish enough not to eat ham on white bread, but not enough to stay away from bacon or attend synagogue; from Darwinism and the Golden Rule and Karma and always try your best. I am from pop culture, song lyrics, and fortune cookie wisdom. I am from the glass half full.
I am from hot dogs with pickles (but never ketchup) and deep dish pizza. From cheese tacos and peanut butter & jelly in a bowl when my mom wasn’t looking, from buttered noodles, fried Matzo, and the Joy of Cooking. I am from one tragic fat-free Thanksgiving where my mom made us go around the table and introduce ourselves to each other.
I am from the time my parents told me I had chicken pox by bok-bok-boking at me through my bedroom wall, and the way it still makes them laugh, from needle-pointed baby books, PTA presidents, homemade Halloween costumes, Kodak slide shows, and learning to drive a stick shift in the East Bank Club parking lot. From carnival birthday parties on the front lawn and trick-or-treating after dark. I am from knowing there would always be someone there when I got home.
Where are you from?
That’s a lovely poem, and it certainly says more about you than telling the city of your birth or where you went to high school.
I just may have to look up the poet and give it a whirl myself (though I’d be the grownup with the brown refrigerator in our first house)…damn, I’m old. 🙂
It’s great! I love it!
I LOVED this Jill! I was so thrilled when Jonathon shared his poem with me earlier this week – it poignantly reveals the small things that maybe aren’t so small. Those sensory details that are so crucial to memories of our childhood. I was so tempted to write my own. I’m thinking maybe I have to now.
You are a genius.My first and last jaunt into Poetry ( capital P ) was catholic school ( small c. )
I ,like Ralphie , expected a far better grade than a c- ( small c ).I have recovered and now realize over 60 years latter Poetry is in the eye and the heart of the beholder.So now I write on bathroom walls to further mankind and womankind…Yes a smiley face and a wink 😉
I LOVE this!! 🙂
Awesome! I loved it. Very emotional.
LOVED this. I give you a capital A on this venture into capital P Poetry!!!!!
I’ll make a point of getting around to this.
I wish I was still teaching so I could use this in my class! I did a similar exercise but with the poem For My Sister Molly Who in the Fifties. I like this one better!
Loved your poem, Jill! I had completely forgotten about needle pointed baby books. Ha!
Very cool! That took me back. Thanks for sharing.
As always Jill, you NEVER disappoint! I loved your poem!
whatever the path that got you here, it produced a perfect lady and darling daughter in law! Thanks for sharing! Papa
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