Harmonia

By Maureen Anderson, in the spirit of the poem “Where I’m From”

I am from concrete stoops

from fresh baked bread and Bronx River fishing.

I am from summer blackouts and batteries

(Flashing lights and piercing sirens 

instead of “Good Times”)

I’m from graffiti on elevated train cars,

charred buildings with faces 

and no soul —

my childhood playground.

I am from Communion on Sundays,

stained glass prayers and promises.

I’m from early dismissals, hymns, and spirituals,

and no meat on Fridays.

 I’m from ancestral faith and fortitude

and frayed family secrets.

 I’m from there’s no such word as “can’t” 

and God loves you — so I smile — every day.

I am from pasteles and pickled pig feet

notes of platanos and black-eyed peas.

I’m from a mixed identity I often contemplate.

From curly hair I fried straight.

My father’s Puerto Rican princess, 

his native tongue foreign to me.

My mother’s little brown girl,

a shade many can’t see.

I am from those moments - syncopated beats of congas and dominoes

a rich harmony; my family soundtrack.