Where I Am From

By Rachelle King

This is an assignment for my Lit. class. What do you all think?

Where am I from? In high school, when my church group found out, they jokingly vowed to pray for me. That porcelain eyed girl, you know the one, with low hip huggers, spaghetti string tee, and three inch high flip flops, asks me "how do you like get home from school every day?" When I told her I walked down Highland Avenue, she and her gang of cheerleaders gasped, "Do you have to like carry a knife or something?"

People always seem to cringe when I tell them where I am from. They offer some typical euphemism: Nacho City, The Mile of Tacos, Sweatwater. They see me, sideshow freak, and remark on how great it is that I am still in school. I tell them most of my friends are actually still in school. They seem unimpressed and reply, "Oh, that's good. Good for them."

The newspapers have forgotten that we enjoy reading, where I am from. Our children are mitigated into a two-paragraph "Crime Watch" report as if they game out of the womb with a gun. I don't think it lessons our hope, though. You see, the front page of the "Currents" section reminded us that you can get shot in any school and parents can ignore their children in any neighborhood.

Often the melodies of where I am from pulsate through my block. From the place of the beat's origin they celebrate a daughter's coming of age. They are loosening on the makeshift dance floor what earlier the church had constricted.

I have heard the most controversial ideologies and meant the poet laureates of a subdued generation in my streets. These barbed tongues know how to measure the degree of beneficial outcome between a Ballpark and a Library. Yes, some are employed at various fast food Nation restaurants. Others lead those marches from Chicano Park demanding fair rental rates and money for education not war. We know oppression and poetry where I am from.

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