Where I Am From
This poem is the result of an exercise done at an enneagram seminar January 8-11, 2015, with a template devised by writer and teacher George Ella Lyon.
I didn’t want to share the poem then, and at first I didn’t want to add it to this website because I thought it was too negative. But my inner observer caught me being an 8 (The Boss) and again trying to do God’s job for Him. I always tell myself not to be arrogant, not to think that I always know what God wants. I finally realized that I was not listening to that good advice. God then said to me, “I am very big and can take care of myself and everyone who reads it. Share the poem as it is.” I said ok. But eightness goes deep, and we don’t give up without a fight. I said to Him, “You know, this exercise has been so beneficial. These mostly negative words do not tell the whole story of where I am from; in fact, it has been so good to bring up other more positive memories from my blocked childhood. How about I rewrite it and use those? That sounds like a reasonable idea, doesn’t it?” Absolute silence. “Well, doesn’t it?” Now only two words. “Trust Me.”
So, begrudgingly, I offer you the original.
Where I Am From
I am from a thousand chicken coops,
From John Deere tractors and Chevy trucks.
I am from Mississippi Delta cotton fields,
A pure white blanket, endlessly gorgeous
And soft as down to my skin
On the ride to the gin.
I am from mimosa and evergreen trees,
Tangled honeysuckle on the riverbank, sweet to my lips,
And the mourning dove in the dense thicket
Whose plaintive coo can even now, half a century later,
Instantly summon a nameless, unquenchable sadness
And put me back on that riverbank.
I am from loud, mean voices
And haughty, critical eyes and thieves of a child’s identity.
From Jack and Mary Ruth
And a slew of other upstanding Barneses and Gaithers
All the way back to Scotland and England, even France.
I am from the “We’re from excellent stock”
And “Let’s look good at all costs.”
From “Because I said so”
And “Shut up you frasling idiots!”
I am from Presbyterian fire and brimstone, predestinated pulpits,
From a scrapbook full of certificates
For memorizing what seems half the Bible
And a gold cross for reciting all of my catechism at age 7.
I’m from Clarksdale and New Africa Road and the Sunflower River bank,
From fried chicken in the Sunbeam cooker
And mustard greens out of the garden.
From the rusted farm implements we dug up at the barn
And called buried treasure.
From the playhouse Daddy built for us
And the bruises from his cruel, capricious belt that found all of us way too much,
Until he took his life when I was 16.
I was relieved.
From the cakes and pies Mother taught me to make,
Eaten with the proud Strasbourg silver on Wedgewood china.
From the houses where my sister and I became maids so very young
After Mother came home from the partial lobotomy changed forever.
I am from a filing cabinet full of yellowed photos
And moldy slides,
Tattered remains of a billion scattered moments
Imprinted on my ragged spirit over my journey here.
For long years, it’s been my sad shrine, my fractured identity,
My address of rage
On this foreign, faraway sod,
This often unsafe place.
But, of late, I have packed up and moved,
Have left this cramped and suffocating place,
That causes me
To strike out at you in hostility.
To protect myself from you and your probable threat
That causes me to try to control you
To compete with you to be the best, thus validating my existence.
To have the last word
To fight for justice
Both of which I never got when young and tender.
Yes, I’ve left it all
And moved closer to Home.
Closer to Source.
Back to where I’m really from.
Back to where I really belong.
Back to who I really am.
It is so very good.
Rebecca Barnes Hobbs
Enneagram 8