Where I am From

(c) 2015 

I am from wooden spoons deep in cookie dough,
from C & H sugar and Carroll Corn Syrup.
I am from normal; not from natural.
I am from asbestos-tiled homes
and neighborhood kids who looked like me.
From kick-the-can on summer evenings
and walking home after dark to watch
black and white T.V.
I had fluoride-fortified teeth, iodine-stained knees
and sipped heated whiskey to burn out the flu.
Mothers collected aprons, and fathers’ broke things
so they could fix them. Back when dads were useful. 
I am from Mothers who read Westerns
where rape was codified as romance
where good girls keep their legs shut.
Where good girls keep their mouths shut  
and obey instead of think.
I am from cultural upheaval, from conflict and confusion.
I am from nail biting to the bitter quick.
Under my bed was a box of report cards,
one Public School C grade after another.
A box of ribbons and badges for memorizing
bible verses, for sewing pillowcases, for observing 
how practical domestic skills would gird my loins
and passivity could be my shield.
From hope there was something better.