Where I’m from

I am from the Warp family Polish nose and Larsen family clear blue eyes.

I am from building forts with friends and little blue dirt bikes.

I am from summers spent in swimming suits and deep dark tan lines.

I am from sticky fingers from cupcake icing and cherry kool-aid mustaches.

I am from ding dong ditch games during late night sleepovers.

I am from party shoes and orange ice cream truck push ups.

I am from grandparents we called Bossy and Papa.

I am from Florida vacations and water skiing at my dad’s.

I am from life long friends made in 3rd grade.

I am from strawberry wallpaper that I was convinced smelled like strawberries and trundle beds in tiny rooms.

I am from June picked mulberries and October apple dunking.

I am from the small blue house on Lalonde with the ginormous pool in the backyard.

I am from Kmart brand clothes and buffet lunches after church on Sundays.

I am from the rhubarb sticks covered in sugary goodness and flower beds covered in red lava rock.

I am from uncles dressing up as Santa and a grandpa who called kids peanut.

I am from Lemonade stands and climbing cranberry trees.

From grandparents who called me “the little one” and “missy”.

I am from missionary visits and Sunday school lessons about Jesus.

I’m from Chicago’s western suburbs and Indiana’s far Eastern back roads.

I am from Pepsi in glass bottles and Ragu smothered Spaghetti.

From the day my sister and I grabbed some friends and pulled all of my mom’s plants out of the backyard while she was at work so she would buy us a swimming pool.

I am from rows of family photos, carefully labeled with each event, lovingly looked at with each visit to my mom’s house.

Based on the original poem- Where I’m From by George Ella Lyons, found the template here if you want to make one, too.

In Haiti

Every morning a rooster would stand outside my window and Cock a doodle do at 4 o’clock in the morning. Invariably waking me up and making me begin to have the rather paranoid thought he was actually giggling at me, quite unabashedly.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


The water coming out of the shower head feels like ice down my spine and I jump every time it hits my skin.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


The electricity goes out for long hours every day. Sometimes lasting the whole day and even the night too.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


It is the rainy season and my hair appears to be playing some kind of cosmic joke on me.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


There are no popsicles, no air conditioning, no swimming pool.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


It’s Sunday and I’m standing in an itty bitty tent with no circulation, the sun beating town and tarps covering every surface.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.

I have to be careful not to stick my toothbrush under the faucet every time I brush my teeth. I have to have a clean cup, with special water from a system our church put in a jug whenever I even want a sip.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


My body is constantly covered in sticky, smelly bug spray and sunblock.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


The main staple is goat and everything is fried. (Neither of which I’m used to)

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.

All cooking is done in a teeny tiny cookhouse over hot charcoal with no circulation to be found.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


The internet is down in the whole country, my phone doesn’t work and I have no idea how my family is doing.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


My feet are constantly covered in a thick mud that is impossible to avoid as there are no sidewalks to walk on or grass them clean.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


There are no Wal-Marts or Targets or CVS’s to make quick runs into.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.


We visit a pastor’s house and there is only an open air, outdoor bathroom.

But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.
Almost no one spoke but a few words of English.
But it’s hard to complain, when I’m in Haiti.