I’m from unruly, curly, untamable hair—

from eyes, like shimmering ocean waves, standing the test of generations,

from lanky legs frustrating to buy shorts or dresses long enough.

I’m from a family of immigrants—

from ancestors not afraid to open a law firm 4,652 miles from home and across an ocean,

from desperation, in hopes of escaping the persecution of 6 million.

I’m from rowdy family dinners night after night after night after night—

from believing “if you’re on time, you’re late,”

from vowing to never tell a lie, for it makes situations worse.  

I’m from bulging blisters on my hands and feet—

from sweating my days away on dusty diamonds,

from taking home half the infield of dirt in my cleats.  

I’m from photo boxes with bulging lids—

from basement walls plastered with awards, medals, and accomplishments,

from capturing moments before they end.

I’m from annual fall trips to join the sea of red—

from the stadium shaking as we jump around,

from ravishing century-old traditions.

I’m still from unruly, curly hair I have now tamed—

still from baby blue eyes that have replicated themselves in the eyes of my niece,

still from lanky legs that I have now learned to use to my advantage.