I am from the dust of the hot sands in Puebla, Mexico.
I come from the sweating back of my father’s father, as he tended to the corn fields vigorously working to make the day’s wage.
The sun spitting heat upon his shoulders and he still worked as the days got colder.
I come from the table overflowing with tortillas, frijoles, mole, and every color salsa you could think of. The smell of sweet hot chocolate wafting through the air enticing our full bellies.

I am from the lost story of my great-great grandfather, who escaped from the clinking chains of bondage.
I come from his lineage who no longer live life without one another side by side.
Every Thanksgiving hand in hand, mumbling a prayer.
Never again allowing another member of our family to wander alone.

I come from the shining golden pedestal where the children of my family have been given a better life.
I am from the suburbs of South Plainfield.

But I am the cracked pavement of Youngstown, Ohio. I am the gum stained streets of Brooklyn, the endless maze of corn found in Fort Riley, Kansas.
I am from all these places.

My family, we have been held up and we have been kicked down, tasting the grainy bitter dirt in our mouths.
My roots have traveled many a place, but we always feel the warm sun on our face.
My roots moved with the wind like dust.
And like dust, where we are blown, we eventually settle.