Jan. 9th, 2013

saint_corvid: (Ojibwe wheel)
Originally found this on [personal profile] noir_au_blanc's journal, and have seen it in a few other places as well since then. I thought it was a very creative idea that was personal and revealing without going too deep, and I thought as an introductory post, I'd try my own hand at this prompt. I didn't follow the template exactly, but I think its more a guideline than a requirement.

It is called "Where I Come From," and the template for it can be found here: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm



I am from dollar-store horses, plastic and flocked in vivid colors only imagined on real creatures, from stuffed animals played with until they were unrecognizable and sewn back together time and time again only to be played with and loved just as roughly the next time, promising more stitches and dirt-stains to give them their character. From thinking toys came alive when you weren't looking, and could think and feel just like you and needed to be treated as such.

I am from the skinny, tall house from Victorian times, small rooms with high ceilings that somehow held countless dozens of family members on holidays and special events, with doors hidden in the walls and carved wooden banisters, eccentric wallpaper from another time and tall windows much loved by lazy cats, the lofty attic often transformed into a playground and the basement never touched from fear.

I am from red and pink roses planted with care by a woman gone long before my time, twining and melding with the sweet wooden trellis and growing upward far beyond it, dominating the tiny yard. From irises and tulips and daffodils towering over the tiny lilies of the valley, surrounding the sides of the house in a bed of rainbow hues and butterflies and wildly colored spiders, transforming the small plot in children's imaginations into jungles and forests run through barefoot by beasts real and imagined, on secret adventures and quests never spoken of.

I am from vastly different cultures connected, of Kerrs and Latourrettes and Singing Crows, of stubborn temperaments and dark humor and unconditional charity. From Christmas Eves celebrated with cheer and beer long into the next morning and wakes attended with equal parts tears and raucous laughter, of tobacco both smoked and offered in prayer and songs in many languages, sweeping salt off the porch to be rid of bad luck and special teas from grandma for many ailments.

I am from a small, not-wholly-suburban-or-rural neighborhood in a town no one's really heard of tucked away in the mountains of Pennsylvania, surrounded by deer and morning fog, the birthplace of the steel industry that has left this place in its dust, full of unparalleled history and architecture and family bonds keeping generations rooted to the spot.

I am from the First People of this land, long abused and easily forgotten by the many who call this place their home now, a carrier of traditions and stories and beliefs that nearly died but rose up again in the determination of a Nation not to be killed, an Anishinaabe, and a descendent of the Scottish war clans who fought to keep England's invaders away, battling to keep their freedom and their life intact but sadly lost. I am from my ancestors, red and white, carrying old ways taught to me by mothers and aunts and grandmothers and grandfathers, remembering those who walked before me and living to keep these ways alive for the next generation, and those long after.

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March 2013

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