From Chickweed & Ash
A birthday poem, a writing exercise, and an invitation
It’s my birthday today—I’m fifty-seven years old. It’s a good day to remember where I am from, which is Duluth, Minnesota on the shores of Lake Superior, and … so much more.
In fact, I wrote about it a few years ago in an I Am From poem. I share it with you today in celebration of my birthday—and I offer you an exercise to make your own, which I hope you’ll share.
From Chickweed & Ash
I am from overflowing ashtrays, from store-brand cereal and late payments.
I am from steep wooden front steps (rickety & flaking, slats of light blooming the chickweed).
I am from ancient volcanic rock and clear rolling creeks tumbling to Lake Superior, whose freezing waters and crashing waves move through me.
I am from democrats and railroad men, from Georgeanne and Alice and Adelle. I’m from chain-smoking and late nights with Johnny Carson, from “Go out and play” and “Get out of my sight.”
I am from ex-communicated from the Catholic Church for divorce and racing for donuts after the Lutheran service.
I am from Duluth and Lampton, Lowry’s baked chicken and apple-walnut salad.
I am from my father’s father who dropped dead after a short life of inch-thick butter on crackers, and my mother’s mother who caught cancer from all those dry cleaning chemicals.
But high on my closet shelf, behind my cardigans and cotton dresses, are stacks of fancy vintage hats from my father’s mother, Adelle, the only grandparent who lived to meet me, and her sister, Alice, who loved me so. The same hats they wore to the Glass Block in Duluth every day and to the Field Museum when the World’s Fair came to Chicago.
I am from those hats, their feathers and sequins and nets, their fine-woven hope for all that blooms with chickweed and ash.
Write Your Own “I Am From” Poem
My poem came from a well-loved writing exercise (one I love to teach)— based on a poem by George Ella Lyon.1 I taught this exercise in a narrative health forum through the Project for Advancing Healthcare Stewardship, after which one of the participants (who is now a friend of mine) launched an Instagram Live series where people share their own I Am From poems in real time.2
You can write your own "I Am From” poem using the same template I (and countless other teachers) use to teach this exercise.
If you write one, I’d love to read it in the comments!
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Love,
Jeannine
http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html
https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/?hl=en
Happy birthday Jeannine! You are an inspiration!!
The writing exercise was quite inspiring, so here is my first try:
I am from empty Unicum bottles, from Jaffa oranges and cottage cheese.
Dazzling and dizzying, the infinite horizon of the Mediterranean Sea calling my name.
I am the forested wetland of slow moving water, the transitional zone between the terrestrial and aquatic worlds where you don’t want to be caught.
I am from architects and journalists, from Renáta, Péter and Mária. I am from shouting matches late in the night and silent treatments in the mornings, from “menjél már” and “Na már megint mit csinálsz?”
I am a lapsed Catholic who grew up believing she was a Jew, until she was handed an M-16.
I am from Budapest and Gan-Shmuel, szilvás gombóc and falafel competing for my affection.
I am from my father’s father who fell asleep by the gas stove boiling water on Christmas Eve, and my mother who on Easter Friday drove us in her Fiat 500 to Vienna, promising a plane ride to see palm trees.
Imola was the name that my father chose for me when my parents were in love, and Imola was the name that my mother forced me to change when she wanted to erase her past. Imolácska is how my grandmother Renáta called me even after I had become a mother, her boundless love reaching me as far as London, New Zealand, India and Canada.
I am from the names they slapped on me without asking, and the names they refused to acknowledge, nem tudván hogy questo nome è anche italiano
e mi va benissimo.
I’m from cold pop tarts for breakfast. From Kodak Instamatic cameras and hand-me-downs—tattered and worn, but Tide-fresh clean.
I’m from dandelions, the official flower of the military brat. Blooming wherever the wind carried me, drought tolerant, and extremely resilient.
I’m from turkey and dressing on Thanksgiving and new pajamas on Christmas Eve. From Grammy, and Great Uncle Levi who died a month shy of his 112th birthday.
From “Because I said so,” and “I’ll give you something to cry about.”
I’m from cartoons instead of church on Sunday mornings while Mama slept in.
I’m from red dirt, pinto beans, and fried okra. Cornbread and buttermilk that Grandpa slurped from a goblet with a spoon.
From broken dishes and a broken home and a Daddy always at war.