When asked, "Where are you from?"
I feel as though this question hangs in the air. I'm never sure how to answer it. I've tried several different answers over the years.
I'm from Texas.
I grew up in San Antonio.
I grew up in the Southwest.
I grew up in Central Texas.
Those answers fulfill the geographical requirements of the question, but it doesn't fully satisfy the question.
Oh yeah, then there’s this answer, "I grew up on the east side of San Antonio. I would have gone to Judson." But I never attended public school. So this really doesn't mean anything to me.
The reality is that I only slept on the east side. I was never there during the day. I was never from there. That was the place where I laid my head.
Where I'm from is a place where worlds collide. A combination of stories that made my story. And as limericks and prose became one, so did I.
I am from a place that is north, and it is south. This place is free, but it is also opposed. Oppressed from ancient times and melded together through modern notions and longings. I'm from a place that met in Texas, but I'm not from Texas. I am from a place that speaks Spanish, but I'm more from a place that speaks from the heart. It speaks loudly, but sometimes what is being said remains quiet.
"Where are you from?"
I'm from a place I've never read about. From a place that is both sinner and saint. Orthodoxy with mixes of unauthorized dancing. I'm from a place that has confused me, and yet I knew exactly where I was.
I'm a combination of legal and undocumented immigration, and yet my story is native. I'm homegrown in a place that is foreign to my eyes. The sounds and smells of distant lands fused together in my home.
These are the stories that describe where I am coming from.