Where I’m From
by Kavya Anbarasu
I am from a pair of dull pink cross country spikes,
Only tamed down from the layers (of) mud and dirt.
I am from four bikes, all unique in color
Used to journey across the many worn-down trails littered throughout the neighborhood.
I am from a beat-up basketball hoop with a torn net,
A plastic, orange bat accompanied with many wiffle balls,
And a large, grassy backyard - perfect for playing football, soccer, or simply running around.
I am from an overflowing bookshelf, with novels haphazardly piled up on top of each other.
I am from an assortment of rich, colorful spices,
From chapathi with chicken curry
To paneer butter masala and biryani
And I’m from sweet, delectable gulab jaman.
I am from Crescent Ridge, makers of the best ice cream.
And I am from Ward’s Berry Farm, the perfect destination to pick fresh fruits.
I am from Anbu and Uma,
But I’m also from Hari, the best brother in the world.
I am from Chennai, Tamil Nadu, a bustling city,
Surrounded by a plethora of street vendors, shops, and cinemas.
And I am from the village of Kalappanaickenpatti
Where everybody is considered to be family.
But most of all, I am from my friends, who are brave and loyal
And from my family, who are always loving and supportive.
by Kavya Anbarasu
I am from a pair of dull pink cross country spikes,
Only tamed down from the layers (of) mud and dirt.
I am from four bikes, all unique in color
Used to journey across the many worn-down trails littered throughout the neighborhood.
I am from a beat-up basketball hoop with a torn net,
A plastic, orange bat accompanied with many wiffle balls,
And a large, grassy backyard - perfect for playing football, soccer, or simply running around.
I am from an overflowing bookshelf, with novels haphazardly piled up on top of each other.
I am from an assortment of rich, colorful spices,
From chapathi with chicken curry
To paneer butter masala and biryani
And I’m from sweet, delectable gulab jaman.
I am from Crescent Ridge, makers of the best ice cream.
And I am from Ward’s Berry Farm, the perfect destination to pick fresh fruits.
I am from Anbu and Uma,
But I’m also from Hari, the best brother in the world.
I am from Chennai, Tamil Nadu, a bustling city,
Surrounded by a plethora of street vendors, shops, and cinemas.
And I am from the village of Kalappanaickenpatti
Where everybody is considered to be family.
But most of all, I am from my friends, who are brave and loyal
And from my family, who are always loving and supportive.
Where I'm From
by Samar Haque
I am from pages,
from insect friends and disappearing ink stains.
I am from wildflowers and weeds
and bunnies that hide behind these.
I am from the rusting, backyard playground
standing stationary after twenty years.
I’m from Ma’s lullabies sung
and afternoons danced away.
I’m from Daddy’s strengths and regrets,
and love filled meals that he makes just for me.
“It’s not you we don’t trust,
it’s the world we don’t trust.”
From Sana’s brazen and truthful sass,
to Shireen’s fierce eyes that can see through everything,
and Sanam’s childish antics.
“You can do anything,
you just have to try.”
From their tickles,
I choke on happiness.
I’m from gibberish, putchi,
kutchi,
hubbachi.
I’m from barbeque made in the pouring rain,
from celebratory pink chum chum,
from the annual Thanksgiving green bean casserole.
I’m from Disney World,
made into a princess every weekend.
I’m from the fraying edges of memory and heritage
that are turning to dust
Everyday.
Everyday,
I am built more,
completed only when I end.
I am from the past, present and future,
they are from me.
by Samar Haque
I am from pages,
from insect friends and disappearing ink stains.
I am from wildflowers and weeds
and bunnies that hide behind these.
I am from the rusting, backyard playground
standing stationary after twenty years.
I’m from Ma’s lullabies sung
and afternoons danced away.
I’m from Daddy’s strengths and regrets,
and love filled meals that he makes just for me.
“It’s not you we don’t trust,
it’s the world we don’t trust.”
From Sana’s brazen and truthful sass,
to Shireen’s fierce eyes that can see through everything,
and Sanam’s childish antics.
“You can do anything,
you just have to try.”
From their tickles,
I choke on happiness.
I’m from gibberish, putchi,
kutchi,
hubbachi.
I’m from barbeque made in the pouring rain,
from celebratory pink chum chum,
from the annual Thanksgiving green bean casserole.
I’m from Disney World,
made into a princess every weekend.
I’m from the fraying edges of memory and heritage
that are turning to dust
Everyday.
Everyday,
I am built more,
completed only when I end.
I am from the past, present and future,
they are from me.
Where I’m From
by Emma Olshin
I am from the tomato garden,
where I grew from the soil and sun.
I am from the one story house that is a jumble of new and old,
always changing.
I am from the ginormous pine tree that was cut down
after dying slowly for some time.
I am from homemade challah and piping hot matzo ball soup,
from fresh apple crisp and twisted cinnamon buns.
I am from noodle pudding, brisket, and latkes,
all from Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen.
I am from the dance studio,
from leaps and turns and lots of sweat.
I am from the stage, from the theater,
from thick, heavy curtains and bright, blinding lights.
I am from parents who cherish me,
for I’m their only one.
I’m from “I love you to the moon and back”s.
I’m from the photo albums that line the bookcases, a library of memories,
full of smiles, bursting with love.
by Emma Olshin
I am from the tomato garden,
where I grew from the soil and sun.
I am from the one story house that is a jumble of new and old,
always changing.
I am from the ginormous pine tree that was cut down
after dying slowly for some time.
I am from homemade challah and piping hot matzo ball soup,
from fresh apple crisp and twisted cinnamon buns.
I am from noodle pudding, brisket, and latkes,
all from Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen.
I am from the dance studio,
from leaps and turns and lots of sweat.
I am from the stage, from the theater,
from thick, heavy curtains and bright, blinding lights.
I am from parents who cherish me,
for I’m their only one.
I’m from “I love you to the moon and back”s.
I’m from the photo albums that line the bookcases, a library of memories,
full of smiles, bursting with love.
Where I’m From
by Jesse Cook
I am from dirt, the red-brown kind that perfectly lines the basepaths at Fenway,
And the high grass from the infield at Deb Sampson,
From the golden alto saxophone under my bed,
And Padre’s red and white James Dean guitar whose strings still sweetly smell of gasoline,
The two corgis running and sleeping in the backyard under the hot summer sun,
Trampling my beat up black and brown catchers mitt, still crusty with dirt from my first game,
I’m from taking so long it’s like I’m “Baking a Lemon,”
Screaming “Who ‘Dey?!” after a win and turning to say “Yeah that’s right, high five,”
Missing my cousins to tossing a disc with them and playing every card game we know,
From catching Clara’s pitching in the backyard to the batting cage with her and Padre,
To Lake Massapoag where I worked my summers and jogged with Madre,
Eating Skyline Chili with my young uncles followed by smooth chip-filled Graeter’s Ice Cream,
I’m from the 3,000 miles between the shining waters and palm trees of San Diego,
To the Patriots’ red white and blue lining Pats’ place 20 minutes away,
From MY tree arching over the roof, branches that snapped snow in my face when I passed,
Red grainy rug where I studied Tom Brady and my first memory, “David Ortiz is Superman!”
Our third television (I broke the first) blasting Star Trek and Boston and Cincinnati sports,
From radios to cell phones with Marty’s rare, but glorious, “And this one belongs to the Reds,”
To “L’Chaim” on Pesach with “plouffing” corgis and cats year round,
And Padre on piano for Pops’ tours; Madre on french horn (and shofar) for the High Holy Days,
I’m from the trampoline I haven’t used since I saw a spider on it when I was five,
And the hockey stick I stopped using for the same reason (Also we didn’t have a hockey team),
TD Garden with glistening white ice where my Bruins (mainly Madre’s Bruins) won the Cup,
And the same arena where the Celtics’ Big Three brought home a championship of their own,
From the Pats down 28-3,
And the Red Sox down 3 games to none (take that Yankees fans!),
The scrawny bag of bones that had already lost eight lives we found hours before seventh grade,
To the happy fat cat he became and the numerous attacks he made, biting the older black cat,
From the walks through green, rusty Sharon Center to winding South Main and abrupt Station,
To the giant United States flag I proudly flew in my room and the Star of David on my chest,
Black-red cameras I sat behind while locals yapped about sports I knew more than them about,
To the maroon, bee-filled booth where I sat in front of the camera and called Sharon football,
Cooperstown, the palace I only associate with good (baseball, Padre, and Granny),
And the walk from Angel’s with the light brown sign to the dog park with none,
I’m from that same park across from the baseball fields,
Filled with love, fluff, and wood chips.
by Jesse Cook
I am from dirt, the red-brown kind that perfectly lines the basepaths at Fenway,
And the high grass from the infield at Deb Sampson,
From the golden alto saxophone under my bed,
And Padre’s red and white James Dean guitar whose strings still sweetly smell of gasoline,
The two corgis running and sleeping in the backyard under the hot summer sun,
Trampling my beat up black and brown catchers mitt, still crusty with dirt from my first game,
I’m from taking so long it’s like I’m “Baking a Lemon,”
Screaming “Who ‘Dey?!” after a win and turning to say “Yeah that’s right, high five,”
Missing my cousins to tossing a disc with them and playing every card game we know,
From catching Clara’s pitching in the backyard to the batting cage with her and Padre,
To Lake Massapoag where I worked my summers and jogged with Madre,
Eating Skyline Chili with my young uncles followed by smooth chip-filled Graeter’s Ice Cream,
I’m from the 3,000 miles between the shining waters and palm trees of San Diego,
To the Patriots’ red white and blue lining Pats’ place 20 minutes away,
From MY tree arching over the roof, branches that snapped snow in my face when I passed,
Red grainy rug where I studied Tom Brady and my first memory, “David Ortiz is Superman!”
Our third television (I broke the first) blasting Star Trek and Boston and Cincinnati sports,
From radios to cell phones with Marty’s rare, but glorious, “And this one belongs to the Reds,”
To “L’Chaim” on Pesach with “plouffing” corgis and cats year round,
And Padre on piano for Pops’ tours; Madre on french horn (and shofar) for the High Holy Days,
I’m from the trampoline I haven’t used since I saw a spider on it when I was five,
And the hockey stick I stopped using for the same reason (Also we didn’t have a hockey team),
TD Garden with glistening white ice where my Bruins (mainly Madre’s Bruins) won the Cup,
And the same arena where the Celtics’ Big Three brought home a championship of their own,
From the Pats down 28-3,
And the Red Sox down 3 games to none (take that Yankees fans!),
The scrawny bag of bones that had already lost eight lives we found hours before seventh grade,
To the happy fat cat he became and the numerous attacks he made, biting the older black cat,
From the walks through green, rusty Sharon Center to winding South Main and abrupt Station,
To the giant United States flag I proudly flew in my room and the Star of David on my chest,
Black-red cameras I sat behind while locals yapped about sports I knew more than them about,
To the maroon, bee-filled booth where I sat in front of the camera and called Sharon football,
Cooperstown, the palace I only associate with good (baseball, Padre, and Granny),
And the walk from Angel’s with the light brown sign to the dog park with none,
I’m from that same park across from the baseball fields,
Filled with love, fluff, and wood chips.
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