I am from apples and strawberries, artichokes and mud pies. I am from crashing breakers and hot sand, smelly seaweed rotting by the driftwood.
I am from the back room, taking apart broken toys and equipment, given to me to keep me from eternally asking, “Why Mommy?”. I am from the dinner table where parents endlessly argue over medical diagnoses and techniques.
I am from the bedroom, reading Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia cover to cover, and about anything else I can find. I am from electronic kits and motor cars, soldering and welding. Ever learning.
I am from school, never playing hooky, acquainted with all 300 classmates with parents from Mexico, Italy, Philippines, China, Japan, Croatia. I am from an elite private college, where the only “real people” were the gardeners sweeping the sidewalks with long fronds of palm. I am from the summer, working in an apricot orchard with folks who slept in their cars, and from the five and dime store earning more than the mothers who sold the merchandise that I unpacked.
I am from a lonely laboratory filled with glassware, poisons, and explosives. I am from a private coed boarding school in West Africa, trying to instill a thought process in students who only wanted the answers to the school leaving exam.
I am from the chorus, singing a set of short songs, so enrapt with the music that I am not myself, only a voice in the chorus.
I am from the drawing board, assembling parts to make a tape recorder, a house, or a software application. I am at the sewing machine, stitching legs or waistband or glittering salmon onto a stole.
I am these, more or less, more broad than deep.