Where I Come From Digital Story
Black Coffee and Cigarette Smoke
I come from burnt-orange and pink shag carpets,Powder blue walls and giant flowers on furniture,And if you listen close enough you can hear ghosts walking in the attic and bible thumping guilt.
I come from making ends meet, stretching the meal, and sister hand-me-downs;From cramped quarters, and dinner on the table at 5--fill your plate, spill the milk, and “get the hell out of here” there is no laughing at the table.
I come from sugar sauce spaghetti and hockey puck steak, boxed mashed potatoes you could plaster the wall with--Ma never did learn those southern heart cloggin’ recipes.I come from black coffee and cigarette smoke, talking around the table,and pushing the sewing pedal with your knee
I come from momoms and papas. Love from down in the hollow: sugarballs; cornbread and milk, soup beans and ham on cold winter nights; Resilience and hard work; steel mills and soap factoriesMoonshine and canning jars.
And don’t forget the other sideOf oral storytelling:Late night fisticuffs, tavern talk, Willie Ds and horse racesI come from “got a bug,” that gentle flick of overgrown fingernails to the back of the head. Myths about nine wives and bombs in candles, giant buddhas and Brotherhood gangs.And Grandmas who put up with too much of that boy shit.
I come from six kids, and how to forgiveAnd how to survive having a big mouth when you ain’t tough like your sistersSisters you cram into a full size bed withAnd sing all the words to Jolson and Guys and Dolls withWrap our arms around each other, around our brothersAnd holding on. Always holding on.