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.