I am from the cliffs of Scotland,
with dreams of the Emerald Isle
and the tight laces, heavy skirts of the South.
I am from the sewing machine,
the book-keeper's pen,
and the defiant wife.
I am from the ranches of Michoacan,
where roots are shallow and deep
and mothers smuggle their hijos to a future.
I am from the strawberry fields,
the wrong side of the tracks,
and a grandmother's prayer.
I am from the ocean's edge,
where waves crash against the shore
and teenagers make out in backseats.
I am from the artist's studio,
the RV with matching Margarita glasses,
and terrible decisions.