What is home? How does it shape who we are in the world? These are a few of the questions we pondered this week after reading Willie Perdomo’s poem “Where I’m From”. Students at Simpson Academy for Young Women worked on pieces that describe the myriad of places they come from, and how it’s a part of their identity.
Where I’m From
Makayla J.
11th Grade
Where I’m from
Is called the Austin Area
I’m from art work, modern houses, large streets
potholes, trees, Coleman’s Ribs and gasoline
Where I’m from
you can taste Coleman’s Rib’s and Chicken,
beef tacos with melted cheese, and Mickey’s Ice Cream
and banana pudding cake is always served.
Where I’m from
You see pretty small dogs, nice looking trees
and beautiful grass, you can hear loud trap
music, and busy car horns.
Where I’m from
There’s a corner store on every corner
and Mike-Mike, who wears a face mask to
cover his whole face, wearing all black and
saying he stays strapped
Where I’m From
Aniya M.
10th grade
I come from Lawndale Area where
you see a school and a corner store on
every other block.
Where I’m from you see cats and dogs strolling
in alleys and trash cans
Where I’m from the whiff of cigarette blends
in with the smell of Mc Donald’s fries.
Where I’m from a man with a hat and a
black coat yells as you walk past
And smell the loud marijuana coming from him
Where I’m from cars honk and run red
lights to beat the morning traffic that
comes by.
Where I’m from you touch items
and doors that several other people touched
before.
Where I’m from you get to choose between
a Maxwell polish and a juketown polish.
Where I’m from you see different women
running boutiques on different streets.
Where I’m from a man named Lo
is asking for change and asking where I’m
about to go.
Where I’m From
Svetlana P.
12th grade
Where I’m from Von and Dirk could never believe
63rd and Kedzie where I couldn’t follow through
with my dreams
Moved to the big flag area, Humboldt Park
food trucks at the end of every block and
entrance. Where you hear cops and sirens
old men sitting in the park, greeting everyone
with a hey mami or papi.
Jibaritos for lunch, don’t forget the rice y gandules
smell of fresh coffee, but don’t nobody make it
like my Wela.
Humboldt Park, where the gas stations sell B’s
to the underage
Humboldt Park, town of the C’s Yuk!
Territory that could never be theirs only
when you see blood.
On to the next best
Gurnee, home of the silent home,
home of the land,
open space creative creations.
Where I saved and met my first baby bird,
gave my first caterpillar a home until he
bloomed, all white fur until I saw the rainbow.
Six Flags a block down, I can hear the screams
from the kids on roller coasters.
Far way from home, where I was a first grader
That big yellow bus dropped me off and picked
me up.
Mom’s van stuffed with all the things you can imagine.
From the inside,
evicted
first grade was my first hurt
a home I loved so much
done for.
Chicago, back to the city
The West Side where I returned.
Piccolo where I attended
second grade, hearing my teacher yell
She meant it.
Bad kids
Learned how to fight and lie.
Where I’m from is all over
Moved to different locations,
I have Illinois in me
I learned to make a lot of noise for me.
