I am from a civil war on people. A hatred for one another fueled by skin color and stolen lands. I am from gravel roads and towering pines. I am from the silence of the forest, the whispers of the wind, and the gentleness of a slow burning fire. I am from revered mountain heads carved into sacred stone. I am from a four-lane highway that to me was just another neighborhood street. I am from a once rural place, now littered with hundreds of tract houses. Cardinal directions separated by proximity to the poverty line. I am from garages full of skeletons never rebuilt. A 1978 here and a 1955 there. I am from wheels and wrenches scattered on the floor. Enough parts to open a full-service store. I come from Levi’s jeans soiled in mud, grease, and oil. I come from a soft red mustache that held back a sarcastic tongue. I am from lofty sports budgets. I am from those of a secret solemn kind. The state’s great divide of east and west. I am from outsourced campaigns. From staying open and staying free. Invitations to the masses, rallies of millions, and uneducated decisions. Games of Blackjack where the wager is the lives of vulnerable locals.

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I was placed on a stroke of difference. The boundaries created for me by my home were never of interest. Lackluster leaders placed limits upon my range, my growth, and my creation. But I never learned to listen to authority. I left my home behind to find those who sought more. I craved a redirection, a repurposing, or a reinvention. I am from varying definitions of craft and culture. Of art and design. Most of all, I am from Them. Them who always said yes while begging me to stay. Them who never questioned my desires or ideas. I am from Them who promised to care for me even in the times I didn’t care for myself. Them, the ones that held me up when I so badly wanted to fall. Them, each and every one of Them. They are the ones I run through the fire for, the ones who make the thought of where I am from a little less lethargic.