I am from the aroma of wet dirt on a dewy Tuesday morning.
From where the roar of a “Cock-a-doodle-do” is the alarm on Sunday mornings.
And from running to the tortilleria, quarter past eight,
and taking the first bite from the warm, chewy, soft tortilla, wrapped around a slice of avocado.
I’m from luscious farms, covered in moss and plants, and from milking the cows every morning.
I am from Jerez.

I am from a place that can’t make up it’s mind, where one day it’s hot, and one day it snows.
From repeatedly listening to “Practice, Practice, Practice,” and from being told to be “The very best you can be.”
And from knowing no English and not understanding simple words.
I’m from having to learn what it’s like to live in the place I was born in.
I am from Milwaukee.

I am from a place where there’s nothing to do.
From the bowling alley that reek of cigarettes, and pizza.
And from where “Welcome to Culver’s. How may I help you?” is the popular phrase at the radest hangout in town.
I’m from Arrowhead. The mighty Warhawks, dominating every school in the Classic Eight.
I am from Hartland.

I am from Jerez, Milwaukee, and Hartland.
from the abandoned, lonely desert, with temperatures blazing over one hundred, with warm sand outskirting abandoned roads and the ice cold winters freezing below zero, with roads blanketed in ice.
And from where my heart belongs to Jerez, my mind to Milwaukee, and my body to Hartland.
I’m from the different places I grew up in--each yearning to teach me their own values and life lessons.
I am from all three, because they’re all a different slice of me.