Where I'm From

Where I’m From #35By Ronit PlankInspired by George Ella LyonI am from a scratchy sofa striped in five different shades of brown and hotel towels we broughthome in our suitcasesFrom Raid roach spray, Aquanet, canned creamed corn, and bringing Dad coffee in themornings: two teaspoons Folgers, two teaspoons sugar, a splash of creamI am from bigger than the first apartment, darker and dirtier compared to the rental house, half aworld away from the desert where I was born and a bunch of places I left but have never beenback toI am from bare walls, quiet adults, and my sister’s doll Naked Baby I thought was so ugly in itsbald and big-eyed newborn bird way but wish we still hadFrom sand in a sandbox and in my mouth, the crunch of minerals and salt a lesson even then thatI can digest hard things, take them in until they become a part of meI am from cereal in front of the TV after school and doing my homework before Dad gets homeFrom Grandpa Lou and Grandma Jean, the ones that did less harm than the other set who I won’tname here. From an uncle sent away to an institution when my mother was seven who she got tosee sometimes on Sundays.I am from there are two kinds of people in the world and if you don’t want to be said no to don’taskfrom WW II and divorce, generational and Jewish trauma. From children who didn’t get to bekids and adults who didn’t know how to hold onto love and dreamt of another time and place,just not this oneFrom Chinese restaurants on Sunday and on Christmas Day, bagels with shmears, challah andblack and white cookies when I was old enough to feed myself, and before she left, my mother’sgingery tofu stir-frys and homemade manicotti bursting with ricotta.I am from breast cancer claiming Grandma Anita and bone cancer claiming Grandpa LennyFrom a great grandfather I never met but have heard about because he was kind to my motherwhen her mother was not and never could be.From no dolls, toys or baby clothes left, but photo albums I look at over and over again to readthe faces of the people I couldn’t quite understand.Where to find Ronit:Website: https://ronitplank.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ronitplankWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #35By Ronit PlankInspired by George Ella LyonI am from a scratchy sofa striped in five different shades of brown and hotel towels we broughthome in our suitcasesFrom Raid roach spray, Aquanet, canned creamed corn, and bringing Dad coffee in themornings: two teaspoons Folgers, two teaspoons sugar, a splash of creamI am from bigger than the first apartment, darker and dirtier compared to the rental house, half aworld away from the desert where I was born and a bunch of places I left but have never beenback toI am from bare walls, quiet adults, and my sister’s doll Naked Baby I thought was so ugly in itsbald and big-eyed newborn bird way but wish we still hadFrom sand in a sandbox and in my mouth, the crunch of minerals and salt a lesson even then thatI can digest hard things, take them in until they become a part of meI am from cereal in front of the TV after school and doing my homework before Dad gets homeFrom Grandpa Lou and Grandma Jean, the ones that did less harm than the other set who I won’tname here. From an uncle sent away to an institution when my mother was seven who she got tosee sometimes on Sundays.I am from there are two kinds of people in the world and if you don’t want to be said no to don’taskfrom WW II and divorce, generational and Jewish trauma. From children who didn’t get to bekids and adults who didn’t know how to hold onto love and dreamt of another time and place,just not this oneFrom Chinese restaurants on Sunday and on Christmas Day, bagels with shmears, challah andblack and white cookies when I was old enough to feed myself, and before she left, my mother’sgingery tofu stir-frys and homemade manicotti bursting with ricotta.I am from breast cancer claiming Grandma Anita and bone cancer claiming Grandpa LennyFrom a great grandfather I never met but have heard about because he was kind to my motherwhen her mother was not and never could be.From no dolls, toys or baby clothes left, but photo albums I look at over and over again to readthe faces of the people I couldn’t quite understand.Where to find Ronit:Website: https://ronitplank.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ronitplankWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #34By Lina LauInspired by George Ella LyonI am from homemade thingsPizza and dresses and playdough in every colourI am from the house before the bend,Small, red-brick, blooming lilacs in springI am from a towering mapleSwung in its arms, covered in leaf piles, burnt orange and brilliantI am from snow forts and blanket fortsSummer road trips across the borderSand in our bathing suitsFrom an immigrant father who left home at 20, never seeing his parentsAnd an immigrant mother, born the only daughter, born to take care of her parentsI’m from big feelings and high expectationsNo apologies and silencesFrom being a disappointment to being a source of prideI’m from a god passed down to me, but not passed onto my daughtersI’m from moussaka, skordalia, and a jello ice cream dessert that no one remembers the name ofFrom my grandmother’s treasure chestFull of hoarded cash saved over years, found after her deathAnd from cousins died too tragic, too young.Volumes of photo albums lined up in my parents’ basementDusty and fullEvery picture dated and labelledA family of shared livesUntil the memories will be mine alone.Where to find Lina:Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/_linalau_/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #33By Jeannine OuelletteInspired by George Ella LyonFine WovenI am from overflowing ashtrays, from store-brand cereal and late payments.I am from steep wooden stairs (rickety, paint flaking, slats of sunlight nourishing thechickweed).I am from the ancient volcanic rock, the clear, rolling creeks, both tumbling incessantlytoward Lake Superior, whose cold waters and ocean-sized waves pulse through myveins like blood.I’m from democrats and foremen, from Georganne and Alice-Adelle. I’m from chain-smoking and Johnny Carson, from “Go out and play” and “Get out of my sight.”I’m from ex-communicated for divorce and donuts after the Lutheran service.I’m from Duluth and Lampton, baked chicken and apple salad.I’m from my father’s father who dropped dead from spreading butter on his crackers,and my mother’s mother who caught cancer from working in the laundry.But high on my closet shelf are those vintage hats, the ones that belonged to my father’s mother,Adelle, the grandma who lived, and her sister, Alice, who loved me so.I am from those hats—bejeweled with feathers and sequins and nets—I’m from their fine-wovenhope for what would someday grow from so much ash.Where to find Jeannine:Website: https://www.jeannineouellette.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #32 By Meera VijayannInspired by George Ella LyonI am from the pages of old journals,From Bona and black ink, I am from wooden floors filled with toys and baby clothes,(Lemony, fragrant, I can’t quite explain why this is).I am from jasmines, pine trees, sweet leaves that hold morning dew,I am from Diwali dinners and unbridled Joy,From Maloo and Mccombe, I’m from the kind of loyal you don’t find anymore, the kind of lovethat’s deeper than the ocean,From “Don’t waste your food!” And “Pay attention!”,I’m from the sound of temple bells and the Saturday choir,I’m from the backwater breeze that whispers to wet coastal earth,From soft white rice topped with lentils and mango pickle so hot it burns your tongue,I’m from all the books that my grandmother read when she had no one and the little blue lines under words that spoke to her, I'm from the scent of her dreams. Where to find Meera:Website: https://www.meeravijayann.net/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/meeravijayann/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I'm From #31By Christina MauroInspired by George Ella LyonI am from the 70's,From hot Folgers coffee and Lipton’s sweet iced tea.I am from the house of Garcia with its family photos and the smell of leather saddles and fresh tortillas,Resilient, tender, the laughter of men sharing their stories while sitting at the kitchen table.I am from bluebonnets and mesquite trees as far as the eyes can see, Fluffy blue petals the height of my ankles daring me to pick them and trees with roots growing deep into the dry earth full of locust shells waiting for my little hands to collect them.I'm from generations of cattle ranching now lost and big hearts easily broken and rarely mended,From Eloisa and her Leopoldo and Lois the brave.I'm from love that knows no boundaries, binding no matter the distance and secrets meant to keep you safe but often leaving you unsettled and pained.I'm from the beauty of my ancestors and the wild stories I was promised would find me.I'm from many religions all influencing to form one, my own.I'm from the people of Spain and the many other European countries who traveled across the ocean, through tears and through bloodshed, to root themselves in what we call Texas, creating these contradictions within this Tejana’s heart.Tamales and pan de polvo at Christmas, cornbread dressing with too much sage at Thanksgiving making the cousins laugh,From the strength of women who did not allow the word "can't'' in their vocabulary no matter the language and stood strong in the face of circumstances attempting to break them,The eyes of my brothers buried deep into books and boxes searching for knowledge,On my shelves, in my closet, in my drawers and often the chairs sitting next to me, in "sometimes" organized boxes, but always accessible in case the faces I carry fade and I fear getting lost.I am from the uncles who cradled me until I slept after my father died leaving me with trinkets I often carry in my pockets giving me hope and courage, The aunts who kept me fed when my mother was too lost in her own mind or busy with her paintings to remember me And my own absolute will to survive and move through strangers who have attempted to teach me to fear.Where to find Christina:Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/christina.mauroWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I'm From #30By Lisa RizzoInspired by George Ella LyonI am from the back seats of rusty old cars,from Crisco and Jell-O.I am from a lawn stretching to farm fields behind(bee-laden and humid, smelling of wind and black loam)I am from the promise of wild rose and lilacoffering sweetness after snow-laden winter.I’m from watching family home movies.Our bodies flickered across the screen,growing and changing in each reel.And I am from work, always work -housework and yardwork and laundryand dishes - doing what must be done.From Melba Lorene and William Frank.I’m from their will to surviveand my longing for something I couldn’t name,sneaking a read under the covers at night.From Quit your bellyaching and Frogs wish they had wings,from Do something useful and Because you’re the oldest.I’m from the preacher saying All Riseto lead us in Methodist hymns, from watching the clock,pews hard under my thighs.I’m from Texas to Colorado to Illinois,from my mother’s southern drawland my father orphaned of family,weekly cornbread and pinto beans,and my mother’s famous red cake and lasagna.From my parents’ mahogany dresserstraveling with us on Mayflower moving vans,to each new home that - Please Lord - might be the one.Dressers that still watch over meas words spool from my pen.Where to find Lisa:Website: https://lisarizzowriter.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #29By Rosanna StaffaInspired by George Ella LyonI am from a blue Atala bikeFrom Borotalco Roberts and Coty powder #21the whiff of candy they left in the bathroomI’m from watching a snowfall from window to windowOld newspapers piled on a chair and a piano.I am from yellow tramways and small squares with dripping fountainsSidewalks smelling pungent,after a Spring rainfall, skunk.-likeI am from Sunday crossword puzzles, and butterfliesat the window,No hugs.Lightning bugs in a jar. A stray cat that was secretly mine.From Magda Sangineto and Ugo Staffa.I’m from Magda embroidering my dowry, never too early to start, and Ugo the marvelous dancerwho dragged along a trunk of novels throughout the war.Tolstoy, Maupassant, Dumas.Eat slowly and sit up straight.I’m from playing catch with my brothers in front of an abandoned church.I’m from Neapolitan baronsand Swedish soldiers with blue eyesI am from Zeppole sweets at Carnival I fried standing on a chair.From a father who at the front in Albania said yes to switching places for a furlow, and the boatthat soldier boarded sank in the Adriatic sea.Always rushing early to trains and events, he died very oldand wanting more time.From a mother with a cascade of chestnut curlscupping her chin in her hands with serious eyeswho died too youngfor me to see her when I look in my mirror.I took with me from home to home in a battered box:her thimble and a frayed prayer book, his mess kit and Modiano Neapolitan deck of cards.A nest of old feathers, I hide themhigh on a shelf in every home.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #28By  Jody Ohlsen CollinsInspired by George Ella LyonI am from doughboy pools and homemade Barbie housesfrom Huffy bikes and Helms Bakery donuts.I am from three sisters to a room and broad green bermuda lawns.I am from bright sandy beaches and weeping willowswhose drooping green sheltered me from California’s sun.I am from Coppertone and Sun-Infrom Helen and Wes and John.I am from belting out a tune and scribbling in the darkfrom roller skating and tree-fort-buildingfrom fighting at the top of my lungs and finding quiet at any cost.I am from Bible stories with Mrs. Cluck and anywhere-you-can-take-5-kids-on-a-Sunday.I am from the Hebjums and Lindseys, a Best at heart with an adopted namefrom porkchops and sauerkraut, applesauce and meatloaffrom a father two generations back that made a grown girl fleeand a mother who lived chasing beauty wherever she could find it, rich or poor.But mostly poor.I am from luaus and carnivals, beach trips and berry-pickingbabysitting and in charge at age 12 and hiding with a book to make it all go away.I am from those moments of running, singing, writing, hiding, lying in the sunbut never far from the watchful eye of an invisible Fatherheld in arms more real than scratchy lawns and doughboy pools and donuts androller skates.A Father more present than my own skin, closer than the sunshine on my bright brown hair.Lover of my soul who was there every meandering minute, keeping time until I came home.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I'm From #27By Maureen C. BerryInspired by George Ella LyonI am from buttercream yellow kitchen walls,From a General Electric avocado green stove and The Good Housekeeping Cookbook.I am from the tiger lilies pushing up against the chain-linked fence.(Orange, erect, between patches of urine-soaked lawn from the dogs.)I am from the Rose of SharonThe neighbor’s elmWhose limbs stole across our yard blanketing pollenLike snowEvery spring.I am from Easter baskets and hand-me-downs,Mary Margaret and Patrick Dixon.I’m from the “Get that dog outta heres”And “Be home before the streetlights are on,”From Sit still! and Hurry up!I’m from Three Rivers and The Terrible Towel,Chipped ham from Bob’s Grocery two doors down and tuna noodle casseroles.From the belt my father wielded like powerFrom my mother immunizing the sick and poor.I’m from Bless me Father for I have sinned, Hail Mary Full of Grace, Jesus on the crossin every room, and candles lit for the deceased and fallen.I’m from pride and hope—vats of scrambled eggs for dinner, Fish on Fridays.From the woman who birthed and raised six boys and six girls, mostly alone, with noregrets.Where to find Maureen:Website: https://maureencberry.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/maureenc.berry/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #26by Tonya ToddInspired by George Ella LyonI am from books and cats and baseball bats,from Mother’s Milk and Banner Batteries.I am from the swimming pool in the back yard.(Deep, shimmeringeyes stinging like chlorinated dreams.)I am from Oleander bushes,their poison-laced leavesbright and fragrant as rose petals.I am from Christmas cookies and big teeth,from Butterflies and Carnations.I am from hand washersand hand-me-ups,from sit up and settle down.I am from spiritual freedom,endless open paths that led toone God.I am from magyarsziren and the Pennsylvania Dutchess of Bucks County—north ofbrotherly love,dark chocolate almonds and ice cream after everything.From the three engagement rings Nana acceptedat one time,the bus my mother fled between my fathers.In my closet was a warm nestof devoted kittens.a blanket of unconditional loveto purr my troubled mind to sleep.I am from these creatures —graced with magnificent progenal gifts —morphing from monster to Muse.Where to find Tonya:Website: https://www.mstonyatodd.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mstonyatodd/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #25 By Michelle YangInspired by George Ella Lyon I am from sweet potato noodlesfrom Shin Ramyun, jajangmyeon, and barley tea.From the apartment atop a Korean bathhouse(boisterous, chained, with bees buzzing between bristly bricks.) I am from the forbidden mango my Po-po sneaks me,the pulpy fibers cling between my baby teeth.I’m from incensed family shrines and stocky, 6-foot Northerner frames.From Yeh-yeh, Po-po, Lao-yeh, Lao-Lao.I’m from sacrifice, from the left-behind.I’m from ‘girls don’t fart’ and ‘never talk back.’ I’m from my grandmother’s templesto the suburban churches, I never belonged.I’m Chinese from Korea. Forever from the in-between.A Yankee-doodle riding on a red dragon.From War, Famine, and Gluttony— I rose.Nourished by kimbap, potato soup, kimchi, and McDonald’s fries. I am from Yeh Yeh’s pigeons, whom he fed nonstop in his dementiauntil the sidewalks crunched with our noodles. Where to find Michelle:Website: https://www.michelleyangwriter.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/michelleyangwriter/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #24by Buick AudraInspired by George Ella LyonI’m from things I didn’t get to chooseLike mango groves and Southern rootsThe latter of which, I found out by looking onlineI’m from water ballet in Pelican LakeMy cousin Er was other long legsOur grandmother couldn’t quite see us, so we danced for her earsI’m from many church basements in the suburbs of BostonSmall Styrofoam cups and hot bitter coffeeI sat with the other kids who knew all the Steps by heartI’m from forest green platforms, with gills like the carOwned by my aunt Nancy, kindred from the startshe still says, “I’m proud of you, Bu” each time that we speakI’m from courage one minute and fear in the nextThe twist in the back, the ache in the neckI’m from “sorry” when I haven’t done anything to be wrongI’m from sunshine so bright, the brain can’t adjustFrom lizards and Banyan trees, Southeastern gustsThe air and the palms call me back, but I rarely goI’m from harmonies sung by my mom and her sisterFrom ego that injures and claims not to miss herIt’s none of my business, but I feel it there under my skinI’m 10 Preble Gardens and Chicago Point RoadOld 147 th and Coconut GroveA quilt of locations I’ve been stitching all of my lifeI’m from Buick and Boey, or “Boick” and “Bu”From lessons in love and just who is whoAlike and so very different, my brother and meI’m from choirs and girls and French braids in dressesFrom what friendship means outside of our tressesThe sounds of our voices as they became one for a timeI’m from words and guitar parts, and wild disappointmentFrom jealousy, hurt, and quick bursts of enjoymentThe balance is one I don’t strike, but I ride on two wheelsI’m from Punk clubs and venues, obsessed with dead menI don’t care much now, and I didn’t care thenI have looked all my years for the women and held up their lightI’m from melodies—mine, and the ones that are sentFrom loud rigs and rhythms that aim to offendI carry the pressure of all the females who were firstI’m from what I inherited and what I did notI belong to myself; I own what I’ve gotThe blood and the bone and the rasp of my one given voiceAs the narratives grow and the characters fadeI stand by the music and choices I’ve madeIt is the work of my life to be fine with who I have been.Where to find Buick:Website: https://www.buickaudra.comWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.comInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton

Where I'm From #23By Gia RuizInspired by George Ella LyonI am from layawaysFrom generic cola and heartburn causing picante chipsI am from 9 homes in 17 years, on military bases, in the middle of pineapple fields, next to undetonated bombs.I am from plantains, brown and bruised, then fried, and smashed at just the right time.I’m from my mom’s lived ghost stories and curly hair and loudest laugh, and elaborate homemade Halloween costumes.From Juan and Linda and Javieri’m from holding it in until you explode and cross country road trips, reading books in the car.I’m from hoping there would be donuts after mass.I’m from Panama and the Aztecs and the Ancient Publoans, and the White men who liked Brown women.I’m from fork-pressed empanadas guided by my abuela’s hand, and my mama’s arroz con pollo with the orange box Goya seasoning.From the desert where my dad did the odd jobs, the shoe shining outside a bar, the catching desert tortoises and bopping them on the head, the hundreds of pounds of picked cotton.From the tias who had the powers of brujas, always sensing when something was wrong from miles away.Being the family archivist. I have the papers and the photos, the stories and the secrets. The family’s human confessional. Given to me by everyone for safe keeping.Packed in old Samsonite suitcases for their next journey. Where to find Gia:Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/earnestlygiaWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #22By Fox Henry FrazierInspired by George Ella LyonI am from Susquehanna and Chenango riverbanks,from rock salt and backyard timber rattlesnakes.I am from a house with beautiful hearthstones—smooth, grey, smelling faintly of rain—and another house, scented with lavender and hibiscusand gunpowder.I am from ivy and holly and This berryprobably won’t kill me if I only take the tiniest bite,and from bitter, but it didn’t.I’m from horseback riding and I’ll go where I please,from Kennedy and Frazier. I’m from the grandmothermurdered by the IRA in the front doorway of her house.From I saw the spirit leave her body and stories of the púca,I’m from dizzying incense, and which priests we learned quicklyto shy away from.I’m from Bittersweet Farm and forest horses in a hamletnamed for peonies, from Galway Bay and lost in the Atlantic.From ham biscuits and jambalaya, from sarmi and dolmeh.I come from a little girl caught in a riptide & surroundedby a school of jellyfish, who looked skyward and was pulledashore by the hand of God.Where to find Fox:Website: https://agape-editions.com/team/fox-henry-frazier-founding-eic/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I Am From #21By Maxine LipnerInspired by George Ella LyonI am from sharing black and white cookies with my older sister at the neighborhoodbakery, where the woman behind the counter knew my mother from way back whenFrom beads of lemon pledge on wood grain, hard-earned from a printer turned copyeditor’s wages and from the used, slightly dented, silver blue Chrysler that took us onmotel road tripsI am from the new Mitchell-lama coop built atop an immovable rock, pushed there bythe Ice AgeTall, blond brick, with two curved wind-swept ramps, that at winter’s peak, with headdown, coat tight, tried your mettleI am from little bonsai treesThe trunks sculpted -- watered and wired by my mother’s artful handsI am from wishing on eye lashes blown off fingertips and from, “I will spare you myrendition of Happy Birthday -- you’re welcome.”From Shirley and from Red, who’s “Christian” name is IrvingI’m from two latchkey kids who wanted a mother at home for their own, to take theincoming, and I am from a yearning to learn that had one immigrant grandfatherachieving phi beta kappa success in his 80’sFrom “Who said life was fair” and from “If you really want it, don’t worry, we will be thesame millionaires.”I’m from a devotion to science and facts, with no room for immeasurable deities, butmelded with an understanding of the matza ball soup, pastrami on rye, and bagels witha shmear from whence I came.I’m from Bronx blocks ringed by family and from the Anatevkas of Eastern Europe –Seltz and Lemberg, Hotin and Sallopkowitz,From egg creams on red stools at the candy store and pot roast and kasha vanashkasfor supperFrom the grandfather, with the bad heart and the golden hands. The cabinet maker whobuilt a summer place on the land littered by rocks, that had to be cleared one by one, bythem all. Just one road away from the easy property with the view, never to be shown topeople with accents like theirs.From garment workers with respect for union labels. The piece worker with thedesigner’s eye and the shaky hands who told you the “honest truth.” As well as a tip ofthe brim, to the other, the “hatter, whose mysterious illness was diagnosed by a docwho later steered her pregnant daughter-in-law clear of thalidomide’s treacherouswaters.From a printer’s “California Case” hanging on the wall, filled with World War II navy dogtags, Arista pins, show tickets, and an old skate key that once hung around my neck totighten the metal clasps onto simple street shoes, transforming them into somethingmore.All are pebbles from the original rock, bits from the whole that passed through ourhands – moments in time to be handed down of an instant when things were black andwhite like cookies, but also rich with accents filled with color.Where to find Maxine:Website: https://www.maxinelipner.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #20By Aly LeavittInspired by George Ella LyonI am from diet coke bottles hidden in the closetFrom powdered hostess donuts and the big shop truck that drove us to get both from 7-11 after Saturday morning chores.I am from the tallest house on the block with the colorful wallsand the furniture that never stayed in the same spot for too long, because you can rearrange your furniture when you can't rearrange your life.I am from the plum tree that filled the air with its natural sweet perfumewhose fruit gave us the perfect quick juicy bite mid horseback rides.I am from John Steinbeck's "The Pearl" readings that went over our heads at the time, and the old sail boat that sat in the garage that served as our favorite spot to hideFrom Gertrude and Virginaand from hard workers that stood in the lines of the great depression and pulled yourself up by your bootstraps attitude.From a father who gave up countless hours to others, only to leave his own family too soon. I am from three long hours of church every Sunday morning and reminders after leaving that I am a child of God, and don’t worry about finding a perfect husband.From homemade wheat bread and grandma's crisp sugar cookiesFrom my dad massaging my mom's feet from his hospital bedAnd from early morning breakfasts at the pantry, best pancakes in Los Angeles!From an engraved Book of Mormon on my 8th birthdayI am from the moments, from birdy and eagle in the backyard , from ABC donuts, from annual Disneyland passes, from long road trips through the hot Arizona desert.I am from diet coke and powdered hostess donuts.I am from the Tommy’s on rampart.From Saturday matinees at The AvenuesI am from Boyd and Barbara.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

 Where I’m From #19By Erik SandstromInspired by George Ella LyonI am from the toy bins at the Ben Franklin Five and DimeFrom a Mattel Fanner 50 and a tube of Testor’s glueI am from a tiny bedroom, walls papered with photos from the pages of Car Craft and Hot Rod magazineSafe, embracing - leaves from the backyard oak brush against my window screenI am from the onions rotting in Sakata’s field which we hurled at each other on the walk to schoolI’m from cramped family road trips in the blue 63 Volkswagen and Ed Sullivan on Sunday night atGrandpa and Grandma’sI’m from my father Bill, who dies the year I was born, mom Margie, with two sons to raise, and stepdadClint – dutiful, restrained, unknowableI’m from quiet avoidance and whispered kindnessFrom “If you fall into Fulton’s ditch, you’ll turn into a buttercup” to “Crying upstairs in a bucket!”I’m from my Jewish mother and grandparents, being baptized as a Methodist, and survivor of theBrighton Seventh Day Adventist academyBorn in Denver with a family tree reaching through Sweden and Eastern EuropeFrom Cheerios with blueberries and sun teaFrom Grandpa riding the streetcar downtown to the Western Union building where he decipheredtelegrams; from sitting in the car, reading comics, while mom attended her medical vocabulary classesI am from the decades of photos – grey and white, Kodachrome and polaroids - stored in containers inthe closet. And my son’s artwork on the wall. His school writing projects and drawings tucked away infolders for the day he shares them with his daughter.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #18By Emily WithnallOriginally published in High Desert Journal Inspired by George Ella LyonClaret cup cacti announce themselves in everything I write. This surprised me at first, but it shouldn’t have. I’ve been pierced more than once by their spines. When in bloom, tiny vermillion bouquets dot the dry ground. They are everything I aspire to be.Papa bartended at Sipapu ski lodge. The lodge looked like it had been built in another century. Only locals skied there. Black widows lurked in the bathrooms, scuttling around the puddles left by wet ski boots. We played Pac-Man upstairs and stole packs of grape Bubblicious and Fireballs. There were probably black widows in our woodpile, too. And brown recluses. I knew a girl who almost had to get her leg amputated because of a brown recluse. At least that is what Güero in the ski shop said. (It was a name he’d claimed with good humor.) My friends all had crucifixes on their walls, and the Virgin of Guadalupe was everywhere. She graced the hoods of cars, candles, blankets, and T-shirts. She smiled from men's arms and backs. She appeared on matchboxes, stamped tin earrings, and murals. She was a statue everywhere. My Girl Scout troop leader had a TV. She let us watch Rainbow Brite, and Care Bears, and Smurfs. One time, she put on Chucky. Chucky killed everyone with a gun. The people took his batteries out, and still, he could kill. They shot Chucky, but he couldn’t die. The people had so much regret and terror. They couldn’t take anything back. Nightmares washed over me each night like the tide.In the summertime, we picked chokecherries and rosehips on the side of our long dirt road. I ate chokecherries until my fingers looked bruised with purple and my mouth puckered.Sometimes, I spent the night at Angelica’s house. Angelica had two moms, one Anglo and one Hispanic. I peed in Angelica’s bed once and woke with shame like a fever all over my body. Her moms brushed my ratty hair with a comb that dug into my scalp. They yanked and pulled and French-braided and secured the ends with hair ties with big purple bobbles on them that looked like grapes. I blinked back tears.The spring wind in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains was cold and relentless and made everyone cranky. I imagined the cacti on the mountainsides hunkering down. Plastic bags whipped through the streets. Madcap tumbleweeds flung themselves across the highway. My room faced the alley. I had heard gunshots and police sirens. “West Side Locos” and “East Side Locos” claimed different parts of town, tagging stop signs and buildings with the windows punched out. I imagined people with guns running past my window. A gunfight, bullets rocketing into my bedroom, killing me instantly. I imagined what my family would say about me when I was dead. The arroyos were mainly dry, so we walked through them looking for signs of life beyond the shapes water had carved into stone and earth. Fossils. Arrowheads. Horny toads. Sometimes in the summer, the Arts Council offered art classes at the Immaculate Conception School. We painted poems along the river walk to cover the graffiti. Graffiti spread like weeds across our poems. Most summers, outdoor watering was forbidden unless we used rain barrels or greywater. In the backyard, packed dirt. In the front, a few yuccas and a juniper bush. They could survive anything.July thunderstorms came just when we thought we’d never see water again. Clouds gathered in billowing piles, white turning to gray turning to black before they ripped open to release a hard, cold downpour. We ran into the streets, faces tipped toward the sky.On Christmas Eve, we traveled over Holman Hill, through Mora, and up over U.S. Hill to get to Taos for the Pueblo bonfires and procession to the church. We drank hot cider and stood as close as we could to the fire, listening to the heartbeat of the booming drums.Once, I walked through Lincoln Park towards the gazebo that smelled like urine. A low-rider slowed on the other side of the park, and a gun appeared through the passenger window, aimed at a man on the sidewalk. I froze. The men shouted. Finally, the car revved and sped off. I kept walking towards my friend Erin’s house, heart in mouth, hoping she was home.On the Fourth of July, we gathered at Carnegie Park to watch the parade. A mariachi band played from one float, flamenco dancers danced in the street, and men dressed like Spanish nobles from Old Europe rode by on horses. The yellow flag with red Zia fluttered from floats. It was harder to spot an American flag.I bought purple Doc Martens at Hot Topic in the Linda Vista mall in Santa Fe. A rainbow seat-belt belt, too. And sew-on red lips that read “Kiss My Patch,” which I affixed to the back pocket of my ripped-up jeans. Sara taught me how to steal compacts and mascara at Walmart. You couldn’t take the stuff with the raised, foamy bar codes, just stuff with regular stickers. She showed me where the cameras were and how to turn my back. I eyed the shoplifting warning signs uneasily when we left.Sara lived in the Enchanted Hills Trailer Park. It was way closer to our middle school than my house, so we’d cut behind Walmart and hop through the hole in the fence. She had TV and I didn’t. We binged on Little Debbie snack cakes and Twinkies and watched Saved by the Bell, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on MTV. Like the town, our school show choir was stuck decades in the past. We sang Everly Brothers medleys and Grease medleys and did jump turns on wobbly risers, splaying our jazz hands.Our friend group consisted of all the people who were too uncool to fit in with the skaters, jocks, ranchers, or nerds. We were the misfits and wannabes. When we were bored, we sneaked through dry culverts with flashlights to avoid anything slimy or dead. We hoisted ourselves up onto window sills and climbed onto roofs of buildings on the tiny university campus. Sometimes, campus security would spot us and put their lights on. We shimmied down the building on the side opposite from where they parked. Then we ran.Saba was tall like me, dyed her hair bright red, and hung out with the skaters. Mr. King intercepted my note to her one day in English class. He always read students’ notes out loud, and he was triumphant when he grabbed mine. He hadn’t caught me all year. Saba and I smirked at each other as he unfolded it. We’d written it in code. His face darkened. “I’ll read it later,” he muttered. We saw it as payback for making us watch his daughter’s toddler pageant videos. The summer that Selena and Titanic came out, I almost lived at the drive-in. I memorized the lines and the songs. “My Heart Will Go On” and “Como Una Flor” became my soundtrack for the summer and for the years that followed. Such tragedy. Such romance.Abe Montoya went to my high school. Cruising one night, the way I often did with my friends, he sped up. Police lights came on. Scared, he drove faster. They sprayed bullets at him through the back window. Later, the city named a rec center after him.I’ve always loved cottonwoods and the shade of their broad leaves. I favored one tree more than others. Massive and stalwart, it graced the banks of the Gallinas. Its low, almost horizontal branches offered a place to sit. Sometimes I felt like the tree knew me better than anyone, better than I knew myself.Sunday was pancake morning. We drizzled maple syrup over stacks of pancakes and listened to powwow music on Singing Wire. According to legend, Apache...

Where I’m From #17By Peg ConwayInspired by George Ella LyonI am from cartoons on Saturday morning,from Oreos dipped in milk andCampbell’s chicken noodle soup heated in the copper-bottomed potthen slurped from the spoon. I am from the house with brown pillars that reach for the sky.From the weeping willow tree whose branches, like feathers,dangle to the ground,from the ever-present absence that my mom’s death left behind. I am from coloring books and 24 Crayola shades that never felt like enough,from pining for the box of 64 that came with its own sharpener.From Barbie dolls and Nancy Drew,from Charlotte’s Web and Little House on the Prairie,from Easy Bake Oven and the Game of Life.I always went to college and chose a sensible career. I am from grief unspoken, from so many things not said,from “GOD DAMMIT!” yelled up the stairs, and Al’s fistpounding the kitchen counter.I am from the rosary, from Mary Lee’s blue beads and Julia’s black prayer book.From hard wooden pews, black lace veils, and nausea-inducing incense. From, “We’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you.”And, “But I’m not laughing.”Where to find Peg:Website: https://www.pegconway.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/pegmorseconway/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #16By Vanessa KingInspired George Ella LyonI am from chlorine.From Speedo and Tyr.I am from the stuccoed ranch on Estero and the poorly-placed box past the gate, too-green grass,parchment skies, the blast of an oven every time you open the front door. But, hey, it’s a dry heat.I’m from manicured palms and white-trunked orange, humming with bees my brother wasdesperate to avoid. We were warned not to eat the fruit—it was bitter, collected for marmalade,but I don’t know if that was true. At the bus stop, we chucked them into the street for Kyle todrive over.I’m from tension left undiffused and awkward hugs.From Van and Esther.I’m from the pokey little puppies and reading well past that one last chapter before bed.From “if Mer calls after 8, don’t pick up” and “Do you know what an alcoholic is?”I’m from “male and female, God created them; male and female, we ordain them”, and BishopShahan’s insistence that same sex marriages should receive the blessing of the church. We blessboats, after all. Love is more sacred than a boat. And the outcry that followed. The “anguish” ofthat chaplain from Luke, and gentleman in the black stetson, who rose, took a long draw on hisO2, and declared, “Frankly, I’ve always been more concerned by those who concern themselveswith the way other people make love.”I’m from Litchfield Park, a desert rat and an Air Force brat, hearty peasant stock, and Cyngs,buckeyes at Christmas “Move the plate—she’s had plenty” and Caesar salad year-roundFrom the chance encounter that kept Grandaddy out of Korea— “if I hadn’t caught that bus, I’dhave been another poor sonnofabitch in a body bag.”The contributions to the war effort that kept Grandpa King assembling airplanes instead of onone to fight.What survived the fire—even if my cat didn’t— a lone VHS tucked away in Paris, and the box ofphotos under the bed, assembled into albums and distributed to all four of us before we cameunbound.Where to find Vanessa:Website: https://www.vanessalking.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vanessaleighkingWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #15By Lucie FrostInspired by George Ella LyonI am from TV dinners, on my dad’s side.From Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie and Morton’s Turkey Dinner.On my mother’s, from “health food.”Homemade yogurt, always plain, and pressure-cooked artichokes.I am from San Antonio summers.A one-story ranch wrapped around the swimming pool, decorator-styled, full of liquor,electronics, and stepmothers, noisy with anger.Mostly, I am from Guadalajara.A tile-floored, wooden-beamed, two-story, warmed by books, classical music, and calm.I am from backyard mango trees, bright bougainvilleas, and field paths to the tienditas.Fields with high brush, lean-tos, and secret short cuts.I am from helping in the darkroom and looking up words in a dictionary thicker than me.I’m from Toomey. I’m from Frost.I’m from blurting out what everyone is thinking and from becoming expert in every passion.From “Don’t you ever be dependent on a man!” and “Good God, don’t dog-ear the pages.”I’m from the Episcopal church on Christmas and Easter and lazy Sundays the rest of the year.From you can believe or you cannot—you have a thinking mind, figure it out for yourself.I’m from Texas, from a family of bankers on one side, teachers and linguists on the other.I’m from steak grilled rare and from tacos al pastor.From G-Dad, who ran away to Mexico in his old age, forcing Mama to go track him down.And Uncle Dan, who tried the very same at age 94.I’m from fierce independence.I’m from relatives remembered in Día de los Muertos altars, from family portraits hung on walls.I’m from dark wood furniture passed through the generations.From Big Joe’s four-poster bed, Lindy’s prayer bench, and Bessie’s china cabinet.Mostly, I’m from my brilliant, funny-as-hell, foul-mouthed mother.And that’s a damned good place to be from.Where to find Lucie:Website: https://www.luciefrost.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/luciehfrost/Substack: https://substack.com/@luciehfrostWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #14By Alyson Shelton Inspired by George Ella LyonI am from bathing suits,From Ragu and Chanel No. 5.I am from sandy feet.(Gritty, crunchy on the floor and in my mouth,Proof of daily joys.)I am from kelp, wrapped around my ankles,scaring friends, but never me.I’m from a lead foot on the accelerator andmaking family jokes out of fresh wounds, the ones that still ache with shame,From Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jim.I’m from No Pain, No Gains andYou’ll be FINE.I’m from No Man Will Ever Love YouAnd You’re Too Smart for Your Own Good.I’m from New Age Spirituality and lapsed Catholicism.Word Salad dressed with self-loathing.I’m from tough Pioneer stock and amnesiac immigrants,the details of their stories willfully forgotten.I’m from freshly squeezed carrot juice andthe blast of Binaca Spray inexpertly used to coverup Coronas and bong hits.From my brother, who fell from a cliff and died to another brother who was shot in the face and lived1In my closet, stacked and organized sit my early memories, showing me how we onceappeared whole, performing a certain type of affluent, effortless togetherness.I search beyond the pictures to remind myselfthat our far flung pieces and their inability to approach whole now, is not my fault.It never was.Where I’m FromBy AnonymousInspired by George Ella LyonI am from an art desk.From Coors and Windsor NewtonI am from the sun-kissed, come home when the street lights come on Balboa of the 70s.I am from sandy shores, pelicans and endless horizon linesI’m from Sunday brunch and life-long friendsFrom Cookie and BriI’m from tear stained pillow cases, unsaid feelings and joyfully singing, “Hello” to hide it allFrom “deal with it life isn’t fair” and “do not stop pass go”I’m from kneel, sit, genuflect and robes soaked in incenseI’m from Golden Gates, hills, trolleys and four leaf cloversI’m from burrito mixings in the fridge and maxed credit lines at TW MarketI’m from alcoholism, hidden sexuality and broken hearts with enough love and happy memories to out-shine it all.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #13By Ann Kathryn KellyInspired by George Ella LyonI am from an Irish Clan’s love,strong as bedrock, deep as ocean,the baby in the family almost taken,decades after baby fat grew lean.(A bleeding brain tumor, caught before bedrock could crumble.)I am from a surgeon’s scalpel,my Superman in a cape of blue scrubs,who outran, outflew, outwittedred kryptonite inside me.I am from dusty dirt roads,a crooked red barn wearing a rust-streaked tin hat.A tidy white Cape Cod houseon a remote, windswept hill.The “City of Brotherly Love” in my veinsleft behind at age eight,as the yellow Dodge station wagonpointed north.I am from moonbeam coreopsis andbleeding heart plants that stand tall in my garden.Arched stems heavy withhearts of redthat nod to me on a June breeze.I’m from candlelit nights singing birthday songs.Small table, voices lifted,off-key and giddy.My siblings crowded ‘round, my father’s eyes dancing.We bang the table in a tribalwhoop at song’s end, as he taught us.I’m from Leonard Senior and Leonard Junior,the former quiet and gentle, the latter forever laughing.Forever loving, from the grave.I’m from “Eat the sandwich in small bites,” and“We can overcome anything when we take it in bite-sized pieces.”My tumor, decades later, picked from the tangles of my brain in pieces.I’m from Irish Catholics, centuries long.In our blood, our hearts, breaking our heartsas the scandal spread and suffocated innocents.And we turned not the other cheek, but our hearts. Away.I’m from Philadelphia scrapple,the unwanted parts of the pig,crisp skin, gooey centerof goodness and spices and lard.I’m from my air fryer,able to leap tall buildings in a bound andcook just about anything you can dream up.I’m from my maternal great-grandmother,washed ashore from County Tipperary to Philadelphia.Age 13, expected to work 14-hour days on a cement floor,a teen laundress in a “big house” on Philly’supper-crust Main Line.And yes, the soldier’s song is true,t’is indeed “a long way to Tipperary.”And, from Tipperary. Especially in third-class.The girl, Elizabeth, who left mother and father,brothers and sisters, behind on the “old sod.”The one chosen to accompany a maiden aunt in steerage,trying for someone’s—anyone’s—definition of a “better life.”I am from a lineage of Clans.The Kelly’s, the Meehan’s, the McGee’s, McCusker’s, the McGinley’s.Preserved in memory, on film, on tintype,the nooks and crannies of my Victorian home’s shelves filled.“Is that really tin?”“Actually, I read somewhere they used thin iron, not tin.”Paper-slim, muted, brown-edged and blistered.Prickly, as thumb brushes metal, caressinga waxed mustache, precisely curled.The studio backdrop of ferns and high-back, fanned chairgreen and mossy, through the passage of time.The depths of our lineage an ocean bottom, mysterious.A sunken ship, glimpsed.Murky. Irish green.Where to find Ann:Website: https://www.annkkelly.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

 Where I’m From #12By Stacy MendellInspired by George Ella LyonI am from the purple banana seat bike,from slip-on Keds and double knit dresses,from Piggly Wiggly and S&H Green Stamps.I am from the 3rd house down on Redbud Drive,the one with two pine trees shading the drive way,(Collected as saplings, tended in coffee cans,eternally scented with Folgers).I am from the plump stand of Pampas grass in the back corner of the yard,soft, fluffy fronds we slipped behind for Hide and Seek,potted petunias and pansies on the back porchand families of snails and rolly-polys that hid beneath them.I am from hamburgers on Saturday nights,and road trips with Hank Williams and Tom T. Hall,from Dovie Sue and Ruth Claiborne,I’m from the casserole bringers and hardest workers,from “Well I’ll be!” and “Isn’t that something!”I’m from Vacation Bible SchoolAnd He Walks with Me and He Talks with MeI’m from West Texas peanut farmers and East Texas oil fields,Iced tea, crackers and milk, and Weight Watchers.From Grandpa’s Volkswagen Beetle that jumped fencesand a Great (times four) Grandmother who once shook hands with Davy Crockett, and later,moved 5 children and 11 horses 24 miles to a new home when she left her husband.A folded yellowed envelope holds letters from Great Uncle Edward that tell the storyof a peanut farmer who left his family and his love to die a medic in Francein the biggest battle of World War II,a leather-bound album tells other stories (in photos and clippings),that link the strong, far-reaching limbs of our family tree.I am from stories and photos and myths of people I never metand I know as well as the color of my father’s eyes,the words to I’m so lonesome I could cry.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

 Where I’m From #11By Meg NoceroInspired by George Ella LyonThe Italian-American Dreamer – to be seen and appreciated for our culture’s contributionsThe story of my family explored and written about after spending hours in a closet with preciousmemories and photosCherishing the stories of those pioneers who came before me, celebrating our roots and addingon to legacy.I Am From PoemI am from magical pixie dust and an imagination that knew no bounds.From hours spent creating dresses and stories around my Barbies and trying my luck at the Gameof Life.I am from the suburbs of Altamonte Springs walking distance away from a big park with tenniscourts where we spent hours playing and pretending we were Charlie’s Angels after school.From a beautiful, 5 bedroom home, filled with loud conversations and lots of love.I am from the sweet scent of roses and the magic of butterflies.Blossoming and bursting with incredible colors. Flying free, proud of my many transformations.I’m from an Italian-American family of passionate people and hard workers. Education andservice were values, but love and support kept us tied to each otherFrom two young lovers, Mary Jo and Michael, the second-generation Italian Americans whogrew up in New York City that were courageous as they set out to create their own story inFlorida away from their families. From an expectation of excellence and an ethos of perfectionpassed down for each child to accomplish great things and make the family proud. FromPoliticians, lawyers, judges, doctors, teachers, educators—requiring nothing less than a strongwork ethic, each doing their part to serve. From passionate, faith-filled and hard-working peoplewho set out to make a difference in this world for their children and their communities. Frompeople who set out to create something beautiful together.I’m from the intelligent, thoughtful and generous members of my family who paved the way forincreased possibilities of success in the realization of my own dreams.From everything will be ok when things went awry to don’t disappoint or bring shame to yourfamily holding still to our greatest potential.I’m from a Catholic family who believed spirituality and love were the cornerstone of life- moreimportant than dogma- from people who did not follow and with a whole lot of curiosity andcritical thinking, question everything.I’m from Florida, but come from Napoli/Sicily and other parts of Italy by way of New York,where many want to wake up in city that does not sleep and dreams come to life.From traditional Italian family meals on Sunday after church of spaghetti and marinara sauce –salad bathed in oil and vinegar and celebrated birthdays with Carvel cake- at the dinner table – asif around a campfire, we gathered together as master storytellers passing on lifetimes oftraditions and hope.I come from movies- the pictures that can change the world- stepping into a theater andimmersing myself in a story come to life.I am made from dreamers and am a realized dream to my parents – I am ready to continuerealizing my own dreams and I risk and take a leap of faith becoming a master storyteller sharinginspiration with whomever wishes to hear.Where to find Meg:Website: https://www.megnocero.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/megnoceroWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #10By Elizabeth HeiseInspired by George Ella LyonI am from tumbleweedsFrom brewer’s yeast and goldensealI am from a little white house on Quiet Lane,peeling stucco, a deep blue sky, the heavy scent of sageI am from red chile growing wild behind Ramona’s housedon't rub your eyes or you’ll be sorryI’m from living with want and joking about the worst of itI’m from Michael and KathleenFrom no one saying sorry and doing the hard things aloneFrom “name the person you expect to clean that up” and “I’m running out the door”I’m from Sunday school at Temple Albert to a pitstop at Unity with Jesus before everythingchangedI’m from San Francisco and Albuquerquesourdough bread and green chile stuffed sopaipillas at Little Anita’s Takeout Window withchange from between the sofa cushionsFrom the Leffert Uncertainty FactorThe disappearing motherbaby pictures stuffed in a wrinkled yellow envelope and lost foreverFrom allowing the painful edges to smooth like sea glass and become something beautifulWhere to find Elizabeth:Website: https://elizabethheise.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elizabethheise.coach/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #9By Giselle InterianoInspired by Geroge Ella LyonI am from recycled food containers with leftovers instead of yogurt. From watered down dish soap and Vicks. I am from mold seeping through the bedroom walls, moist, cold, I CAN’T STOP SNEEZING. I am from avocado trees with brittle branches and ripe avocados I pick for lunch. I am from winter’s at 20218 Steinway’s cul de sac, from doña Chanda and Mama Gema. I am from sarcasm and “you’d be beautiful if only you had my green eyes”. From “Calladita te ves más bonita” and “I was born a sinner because of that goddamn forbidden fruit”.I am from the Land of Eternal Spring, black beans and tortillas. From my parents’ marriage before they were of age, adulting overnight, leaving abusive childhoods trying to break vicious cycles, only to get sucked right into one. I find old remnants of this girl struggling to find herself. All my journals tucked away in my old bedroom. Forgotten moments and feelings written on purple, flowery journals and composition notebooks. I am from those pages, written to remind me of how strong I really was.Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #8By Emily BrisseInspired by George Ella LyonI’m from backyard vegetable gardens,from the rhubarb in spring to tomatoes in fall,from cold cans of Pepsi and red licorice twists,the long hollow candy doubling as a straw.I’m from kid-marked lawns of crab grass and dirt patches, spikey and flour-dry,from the trees we played beneath–those two giant pines–and the birches we peeled,and the maples we climbed.I’m from fold-out kids-tables and summer lawn chairs,from intergenerational games of Pinochle and Pepper,from olive and pickle trays, to grilled turkeys,to plates and pans of aunt-made cookies and pies,from big families, road trips, and Midwest goodbyes.I’m from The Golden Rule and Jesus Loves You,from night-time prayers and tucking-in,and, in the quiet that would follow, fromthe way my thoughts and imagination and fears and belief created a steady flow of questions.Who was my great grandfather, adopted?Who was my grandmother, when she was younger,on that day she made certain her daddy could not torment her mama anymore?Who was my father, with his radio voice and drawn-in smile?And who was my mother, really–beyond me– with her to-do lists, her busy hands, her too-big plans?Now, a grandmother herself, she puzzles together our past–yellowed birth certificates and plotted family lines,four-hundred-year-old stories from Litchfieldand Denmark and Alsace-Lorraine,lines of cousins, lists of mispronounceable names–each detail stored in huge bound books,and in thin, torn black-and-white photos,and in letters, still kept in their envelopes, sent during wars.“Someday, these will be yours,” she tells me,And, for once, I don’t have to ask why. Where to find Emily:Website: https://landingoncloudywater.blogspot.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/emilybrisseWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

 Where I’m From #7By Alexis DonkinInspired by George Ella LyonI am from freshly inked paperFrom acrylic coated canvas and natural bristle brushes, Lowden guitars and Audix microphones.I am from skylights flooding into stained glassDappling floors and walls with manipulated light, refined and separated, only to pool onto quilts in chaos.I am from rotting leavesMingled with slender needlesRed with rust, returning to the earth, with every underfoot crunch of cool autumn.I’m from chapters after advent dinners, and dark wavesFrom Sharp and StewartChina settings and day trip adventuresFrom “we need you to do this,” and “we expect better.”I’m from early mornings, revering daises supporting thrones, where dark robes held books heavier than the paper they bind, edified by thundering organs playing century-old melodies.I’m from the birthplace of a nation, a line walked between Gaul and taigaTaking pride in savory sauces that elevate every entree, followed by such addictive desserts, guests wrap more in napkins for the ride home.I am from a great grandmother singing to peeps all night in a rocking chair,And another chasing bitterness with Southern Comfort, in a land of black and gold.Our captured moments lay scattered in albums in a crawl space, plastic totes collecting dust, SD cards, and laptop memories of people we once were.Volumes upon volumes of my hand-scripted narration, tells a story otherwise shrouded.I could pretend it was something else, but I won’t.Where to find Alexis:Website: https://alexisdonkin.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alexis.donkin/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

 Where I’m From #6By Tiffany BabbInspired by George Ella LyonI am from coffee groundsFrom cheap maple syrup and Lipton tea bagsI am from the place where spiders hidechaotic, loud-- where are you?I am from dandelion blossomsHeavy with pollen and waiting to travelI'm from celery and onions chopped so fine they're transparent, From Eloisa and ChuyiI'm from laughing too loud and loving too quietFrom "Close the gates so the wolf doesn't get in"and "Yo mama wears combat boots"I'm from creaking hymns playing on the radiolate into the night, sung by strange voices from another timeI'm from the dry dirt of Californiafrom airplanes and cars taking travelersto places they've never been before,new places, to start a lifeRich soup noodles, crumbly potato chip cookiesFrom the stealing of a cake from a wedding that had gone sourThe heavily permed hair of the eighties,aging photos kept in a cracking plastic binder of unremembered faces, documents that have lost their meaning.But we watch over them and preserve them, knowing that although the faces are unrememberedand the documents have lost their meaning, we cannot afford to lose more. Where to find Tiffany:Website: https://www.tiffanybabb.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #5By Aimee Seiff ChristianInspired by George Ella LyonI believed I was from nowhere.I knew I had to be from somewhereYet I didn’t believe that until I had proof becauseI didn’t know you could be from nowhere and somewhere at the same timeI am also of somewhere. Someone.I am from subways and sidewalksFrom the city that never sleeps.Gritty, overcrowded, noisyAnd wonderful.I am from pigeons and sparrowsEating from garbage cans and twittering on telephone wire.I am from bagels and matzoh brei and my mother’s handmade menorahFrom no and because I said soAnd you have to learn to play by yourself.I’m from an innate understanding that I didn’t belongAnd the explicit instruction not to ask questions.I’m from New York JewsWho were as Jewish as The New York Times and maybe Rosh HashanahBut not fasting on Yom Kippur or keeping kosher or actually believing in G-d.I’m 99.9% Northern European, only 26% of which, as it turns out,Is Ashkenazi Jew after allTimes or no Times.But it still counts and I am still Jewish.I am a New Yorker through and through, city born and bredBut if I admit I learned I was actually born on Long Island does it still count?I am an only childBut if I admit I learned I have four siblings,Though all of them are halfAnd none of them talks to me except for one,Does it still count?I am born of a teenager and immediately abandonedAgainst her willAnd mine,Only to be placed six months laterIn the arms of a woman twice her age, withNothing but blank space where her heart and her womb were supposed to beWhere a baby did not grow.She is my mother.(I am not from there.)But over the years, we have become of one anotherI love my motherAnd I know now that she loves me too.I am not from herBut I exist nearby herFrom somewhere elseFrom someone elseBut we are closer nowCloser than I ever thought possible.I am from learning and growth.Where to find Aimee:Website: https://www.aimeechristian.net/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thewriteaimeeSubstack: https://aimeechristian.substack.com/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #4By Judith van PraagInspired by George Ella LyonI am from one knife cuts all,Red leather sheath protecting blade and fingersFrom Sunlight soap, Potassium Permanganate and Vim.I am from “met de Franse slag,” clean enough for the eye,Artistic, Bohemian, a raven’s nest.I am from reading under the elmsDandelion stains, daisy chains and horse manure(earthy, solid, fertilizing).I’m from New Year’s Eve starting the morning of the 31stRed beet haring salad, canned salmon, jenever, and refusing to kiss.From JP with the golden hands and twenty years younger doe-eyed NitaI’m from volatile and patient, patientFrom Passover Seder to Christmas carols and atheist prayers.I’m from the sandy North Sea beach and Prague in the eastI’m from slow cooked offal, snapping beans andPeeling oranges and apples countless waysI’m from coffee black, or au lait, mocha cake and kugel with pears.From the grandmother with a black purse,The other who refused to wear the cloak of mourningYoung widow with three teens and a twenty-year-oldAfter the flu of 1918 took her husband without warning.I’m from diamond cutting, quatre mains, and pencil pushingI am rough, hiding and eager to shine.Where to find Judith:Website: https://judith-van-praag.pixels.com/And https://www.dutchessabroad.com/index.htmlWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

 Where I’m From #3By Kelly BurchInspired by George Ella LyonI am from booksFrom cardboard boxes of them, piled in the attic and garageI am from the hedgesWild, unruly, sheltering kids and waspsI am from a towering pine tree,Rope swing whipping through the air, kids screeching with joy, or terrorI’m from impulses and big dreamsFrom William and WalterI’m from insistent opinions and passionate arguments over the perfect Christmas treeFrom Taylor Rabbit and Painted HorseI’m from pre-bed prayer circles and early-morning meditationsI’m from The LakeSmore’s, and Ziti (always with lines)From my grandmother’s yearbook wish for a dozen children,My mother’s courage to protect her four,Boxes turned to crates, unfinished manuscriptsBrushing off the stains and picking up the pen.Where to find Kelly:Website: https://kellyburchcreative.com/index.htmlWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From #2By Angelique GagnonInspired by George Ella LyonI am from sheet music,From bacon grease saved in glass jars and Land-O-Lakes butter.I am from the brown Victorian house thatby outward appearance never reached its full potential,(2-story, kept at 65 degrees, in the sub-zero winter.)I am from the Lily of the Valley,delicate, late birthday gift of Spring,whose aroma I secretly wished I could embody.I’m from the Christmas tree going up after Thanksgiving dinnerand letting music move our bodies.From Alverta Mae and Ulysses Duke.I’m from the daily giving of hugs and kisses,and long explorative conversations.From “sparkle plenty!” and “you’re my pumpkin pie.”I’m from the small generational Episcopal church,the Guild of the Black Madonna,Miss Mabel sharing butterscotch candies,and the lighting of four purple Advent candles.I’m from the Twin Cities andthe Corams who chose not to “pass” for white,slow-cooked collard greens andplastic gallon buckets of Kemp’s ice cream.From the sobering talks in teenage years,struggles with alcoholism on both side of the family,and my mom’s deliberate directive to change that genetic expression.The old-time-y tunes, hummedaccompaniment to step wet feet on a towel’s edge,while her grand wrinkled hands used the rest to pat me dry.In the living room on a bookshelf of reclaimed woodare three intentional photo albums my mother assembledmonths prior, in anticipation of her final days.For arms that can no longer hold me,mouths no longer tell stories,my eyes can still meet their still captured faces:pages of life that rise into mine.Where to find Angelique:Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/angelqtwo/Where to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

Where I’m From #1 By Mesa FamaInspired by George Ella LyonI am from ink and paper,From Folgers coffee and Coffeemate vanilla creamer.I am from the clover patch next to the concrete driveway.(Dewy, earthy, a soft spot in the hard grass.)I am from the oak treesWhose surety in trunk and steadfastness in roots lined the road and guided me to  my mother when my aunt was lost and couldn’t remember the way.I’m from Sunday dinners and addiction,From Doreen and Diana KayeI’m from the needing to be rights and never wrongsFrom “Use your inside voice” and “always make good choices”.I’m from question everything and Mormons who never did.I’m from dirty Vegas and the Wilkerson’s,Dry roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies.From the addiction riddled father and mother who lost their lives to separate suicides 23 years apart – my father on Christmas eve 1995 and my mother 3 months before my 30th birthday in 2008.In multiple cardboard boxes live pictures in bags, albums, and frames of a family history that was often a façade filled with secrets that would be revealed upon the deaths of my grandmother and mother. The lost loves, deafening silences, and soul crushing judgments behind the carefully curated smiles.I am from the spaces between the judgements and contagious silence, the product of ties that bind but am somehow always left behind. I foraged through the boxes to find myself and looking for a place there, instead I found my voice within and made a space for myself in a life that’s all my own, no longer seeking approval that will never come from the faces in the frames.Where to find Mesa:Website: https://www.mesafama.com/Substack: https://substack.com/@mesaWhere to find Alyson:Website: https://www.alysonshelton.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/

Where I’m From poems inspired by George Ella Lyon featuring all kinds of phenomenal writers, hosted by Alyson Shelton. Episode one arriving August 19th.