Where You're From

A guide To the Who you are and might have forgotten

Circa 1953, Woodlawn Highlands, Birmingham Alabama. Two desperate hombres up to no good at all. Those are LOADED cap pistols!

In the very early years of writing, I was exposed to a poem called “Where I’m From” by Kentucky poet, George Ella Lyon; and then to George Ella herself at Hindman (KY) Settlement School’s Appalachian Writers Workshop in 2007.

And somewhere along the way, I adapted the poem (and the template below that was created from it by someone) to share with my blog readers of the day. That has somehow disappeared from the blog so I will cast this one out again to what souls it might find, because I think it is time.

It is time because none of us are from a twisted place like our country in these days has become. It is time to revisit and reclaim and draw strength and courage from the true and unique source of each us in family, tradition, place, faith and commitment to the greater good.

This exercise—trust me—will carry you back to the who you are from the roots that nurtured you. Have your family join you, and read your completed poems to each other. All I’ll say for now, but more about this, by the end of the week.

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🌻 Where I'm From

"If you don't know where you are, you can't know who you are."

Wendell Berry, among others, has voiced this idea that we need to understand our roots to know our place and our path in the world. A poem by George Ella Lyon is called "Where I'm From."

I first heard it read by Appalachian poet Rita Quillen at the Highlands Summer Writers Workshop in 2003. Six months later, we used this template as a writing assignment in a class taught by my friend Elizabeth Hunter at the Campbell Folk School in North Carolina.

George Ella’s poem lends itself to imitation and makes a wonderful exercise of exploration in belonging.

I'd suggest that you give it a try. The prompts have a way of drawing out memories of the smells of attics and bottom-drawer keepsakes; the faces of long-departed kin, the sound of their voices you still hold some deep place in memory.

You'll be surprised that, when you're done, you will have said things about the sources of your unique you-ness that you'd never considered before.

And keep in mind, if this kind of personal writing has been meaningful to you, that each of the lines in your Where I’m From poem, fleshed out, could become an essay-story of its own, and all completed in such a way, a kind of boilerplate memoir. I urge you to think about this. It will take your mind to places worth remembering.

With this poem completed, you will have created something of yourself to share--with your children, spouse, siblings--that will be very unique, very personal and a very special gift.

I'll give you the template here. To get you started, I will show an example below, and my own WIF here later in the week.

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The WHERE I'M FROM Template (cut, paste and print)

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)

I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).

I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).

From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).

I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.

I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).

From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail), and the _______ (another detail about another family member).

I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

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Lastly, the one completed poem (other than my own) I was able to find on my computer, by a friend long moved away but living still, I trust, and forgive me should you discover your poem here as an example.

Each person’s response is as un as their fingerprint. I’d be delighted if you might let me know you did the work, and doubly tickled if you share it with others—and with the family of readers who join me here. ~ Fred

I am from sandcastles and seashells,

and summer sun that bronzed my skin.

From flip flops, petal pushers, hopscotch,

and salt air blowing through my hair.

I am from wild blueberries that always hid

the poison ivy that always found me.

I am from saltbox houses with weathered shingles,

clam chowder, lobster tails, sharks teeth,

and seaweed between my toes.

I am from the womb of the unloving, the

unwanted from love that was not lasting.

I am from the tender arms of my father,

my hero, my tooth fairy, my shelter from the storm.

I am from a four-room schoolhouse in

the town that built America's first public library.

I am from snowmen and snow angels,

hot chocolate and frozen mittens.

I am from bellbottoms, mini skirts,

peace and love, Purple Haze, and Bobby McGee.

I am from hitchhiking, backpacking, mountain

climbing, bare footing, and back roads.

I am the blood of an Oshkosh Indian bride

and her Canadian fur trapper groom.

I am also the blood of the English,

Woodrow Wilson, and generations of longevity.

I am one of five, now only four,

grieving the longevity not so long lived.

I am the essence of lavender, lilacs, and lilies.

I am like neat rows of lettuce,

yet as untamed as the weeds.

I am from the ever-changing tides

with my soul firmly rooted.