Recently my students turned in their culminating project for the sophomore year at Norman North: the Autobiography. It really is a huge assignment, but in the end they either really learn to appreciate it (and themselves) or they just throw something together without really getting the main idea of the project. Which just happens to be spending time on your own and discovering, through writing, who you are and maybe just who you would like to be.
In preparation for this huge endeavor I was doing a lesson on one of the assignments with my students. The assignment was to write a "Where I'm From" poem based on George Ella Lyon's poem of the same title. I have always believed in giving the kids an example of what I want from them, and this was no exception. Plus, this ended up being very meaningful to me, not just because my students appreciated seeing a more personal side of me, but because it was almost painful to write. I find the word "home" is always synonymous with Grandpa lately, which just goes to show how much I really miss him. My example...
Where I’m From
I’m from the basketball court, Crayola markers and Crystal Lite Sugar Free Pink Lemonade.
I’m from the house with a misplaced back door and a front door that never sees visitors. From the wide open sky painted by sunsets every evening and scattered with stars every night. From rain scented leaves after a spring thunderstorm.
I am from the mighty Cottonwood and the delicate iris, the hardy buffalo grass that always perseveres.
I’m from Christmas Eve and Rudolph and stubbornness, from Bieberle’s and Musil’s, and a love so strong no tragedy can break us.
I am from the need to always be right and the need to please.
From “you better put that lip back in or a bird will come and poop on it” and say your prayers every night.
I am from rosaries and stained glass. From “Our Father, who art in Heaven” and sit in the 2nd pew from the back every Sunday.
I’m from the Bible Belt, the windswept plains where everything is flat and the deer and the antelope roam. From German Catholics. Steak cooked rare and spaghetti squash.
From the “I remember the time I…” and usually it was true, the Grandpa whose story was always better than yours, and the home-cooked food that said, “I love you” with every bite.
I am from cracking photo albums decorated in 70s floral prints, from faded photos full of finger smudges, from faces smiling through a film of plastic because we can’t let go.
I’m from them, but I’m also from me.
