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Create a new post, illustrate or add images, then drag & drop to relocate it anywhere you like. I'm leaving these post-its here just in case you need them.

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Create a new post, illustrate or add images, then drag & drop to relocate it anywhere you like. I'm leaving these post-its here just in case you need them.

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Create a new post, illustrate or add images, then drag & drop to relocate it anywhere you like. I'm leaving these post-its here just in case you need them.

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Create a new post, illustrate or add images, then drag & drop to relocate it anywhere you like. I'm leaving these post-its here just in case you need them.

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The One & Only Renée Watson "reads" her own  WHERE I'M FROM POEM

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The One & Only Renée Watson "reads" her own  WHERE I'M FROM POEM

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Get ready to read yours <3

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 1/3

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 1/3

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"[IMPORTANT!] NOTES FROM [IAMFROMPROJECT.COM]:

I suggest you do this exercise yourself before leading a group. That will open up possibilities and perhaps show you ways you want to adapt the process..."

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Where I'm From

Kate Kelly

December 2013 (edited 2021)

I am from the old rickety fence in the overgrown field,

smelling of hay and fresh grass,

from the tilted pine tree,

and the black creek, filled with unknown creatures

I am from Nini’s Sunday Brunch,

and family get togethers,

from Barbara and Leo,

and Kelly ancestors

I am from a move up north,

loud family soccer games,

and freezing ski trips.

I am from both Texas and New Hampshire,

An identity defined by compassion,

I am from varied experiences,

That help develop my passions

I am from the vintage trunk in my parents bedroom,

my grandma’s dusty desk drawers stuffed with photos and cards,

from photo albums, videos, and little gifts remembering life long ago

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Where I’m From INVITING STUDENT LIVES INTO THE CLASSROOM By Linda Christensen

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Where I’m From INVITING STUDENT LIVES INTO THE CLASSROOM By Linda Christensen

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“Where I’m From” is one tiny lesson in a year of critical teaching. But as we create schools and classrooms that are “laboratories for a more just society than the one we now live in,” we need to remember to make our students feel significant and cared about. But these kinds of lessons keep me going, too. When the gray days of budget cuts, standardized tests, school restructuring plans gone awry, and bad teacher room talk pile up one after another like layers of old newspapers on your back porch, pull out George Ella Lyon’s poem and invite the stories and voices of your students into the classroom.

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INVITING STUDENT LIVES INTO THE CLASSROOM

By Linda Christensen

I remember holding my father's hand as he read my story hanging on the display wall outside Mrs. Martin's classroom on the night of Open House. I remember the sound of change jingling in Dad's pocket, his laughter as he called my mom over and read out loud the part where I'd named the cow "Lena" after my mother and the chicken "Walt" after my father. It was a moment of sweet joy for me when my two worlds of home and school bumped together in a harmony of reading, writing, and laughter.

In my junior year of high school, I skipped most of my classes, but crawled back through the courtyard window of my English class where Ms. Carr selected novels and volumes of poetry for me to read, where she wrote notes in the margins of my papers asking me questions about my home, my mother, my sister who'd run away, my father who'd died three years before, instead of responding by correcting my errors like my other teachers.

These two events from my schooling capture part of what the editors of Rethinking Our Classrooms meant when we encouraged teachers to make students feel "significant" in our classrooms:

The ways we organize classroom life should seek to make children feel significant and cared about - by the teacher and by each other. Unless students feel emotionally and physically safe, they won't share real thoughts and feelings. Discussions will be tinny and dishonest. We need to design activities where students learn to trust and care for each other. Classroom life should, to the greatest extent possible, prefigure the kind of democratic and just society we envision and thus contribute to building that society. Together students and teachers can create a "community of conscience," as educators Asa Hillard and George Pine call it (p. 4).

Mrs. Martin and Ms. Carr made me feel significant and cared about because they invited my home into the classroom. When I wrote and included details about my family, they listened. They made space for me and my people in the curriculum.

Today in my classroom at Jefferson High School, I attempt to find ways to make students feel significant and cared about as well, to find space for their lives to become part of the curriculum. I do this by inviting them to write about their lives, about the worlds from which they come. Our sharing is one of the many ways we begin to build community together. It "prefigures" a world where students can hear the home language from Diovana's Pacific Islander heritage, Lurdes' Mexican family, Oretha's African-American home, and my Norwegian roots and celebrate without mockery the similarities as well as the differences.

Sometimes grounding lessons in students' lives can take a more critical role by asking them to examine how they have been shaped or manipulated by the media, for example. But as critical teachers, we shouldn't overlook the necessity of connecting students around moments of joy as well.

This year I found a poem in The United States of Poetry 1 that I used to invite my students' families, homes, and neighborhoods into the classroom. It's called "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon. Lyon's poem follows a repeating pattern "I am from..." that recalls details, evokes memories - and can prompt some excellent poetry.

Lyon's poem allowed me to teach about the use of specifics in poetry and in writing in general. But the lesson also brought the class together through the sharing of details from our lives and lots of laughter and talk about the "old ones" whose language and ways continue to permeate the ways we do things today.

Where I'm From
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush, the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses, from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I'm from He restoreth my soul with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch, fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments - snapped before I budded - leaf-fall from the family tree.
George Ella Lyon
TEACHING PROCEDURE:

1. After the students read the poem out loud together, we note that Lyon begins many of her lines with the phrase, "I am from." I remind the class of William Stafford's 2 advice to find a hook to "link the poem forward" through some kind of device like a repeating line, so the poem can develop a momentum. I suggest they might want to use the line "I am from" or create another phrase that will move the poem.

2. We go line by line through the poem and notice the details Lyon remembers about her past. After we read, I ask students to write lists that match the ones in Lyon's poem and to share them out loud. This verbal sharing sparks memories to bubble up from student to student and also gives us memories to share as we make our way through the lesson:

Items found around their home: bobby pins or stacks of newspapers, grandma's teeth, discount coupons for a Mercedes. (They don't have to tell the truth.)

Items found in their yard: broken rakes, dog bones, hoses coiled like green snakes. (I encourage them to think of comparisons as they list.)

Items found in their neighborhood: the corner grocery, Mr. Tate's beat up Ford Fairlane, the "home base" plum tree.

Names of relatives, especially ones that link them to the past: Uncle Einar and Aunt Eva, Claude, the Christensen branch.

Sayings: "If I've told you once..." (The students had a great time with this one; they had a ready supply that either brought me back to childhood or made me want to steal their families' lines.)

Names of foods and dishes that recall family gatherings: ludefisk or tamales or black eyed peas.

Names of places they keep their childhood memories: Diaries, boxes, underwear drawers, inside the family Bible.

3. We share their lists out loud as we brainstorm. I encourage them to make their piece "sound like home," using the names and language of their home, their family, their neighborhood. The students who write vague nouns like "shoes" or "magazines," get more specific when they hear their classmates shout out, "Jet," "Latina," "pink tights crusted with rosin." Out of the chaos, the sounds, smells, and languages of my students' homes emerge in poetry.

4. Once they have their lists of specific words, phrases, and names, I ask them to write. I encourage them to find some kind of link or phrase like "I am from.." to weave the poem together and to end the poem with a line or two that ties their present to their past, their family history. For example, in Lyon's poem, she ends with "Under my bed was a dress box / spilling old pictures... . I am from those moments... ."

5. After students have written a draft, we "read around." This is an opportunity for students to feel "significant and cared about" as they share their poems. But as most teachers know, students don't automatically give their undivided attention to each other when they share pieces in the class. To facilitate the process and to make sure that students get the attention their pieces deserve, I have students write comments about each reader's piece. I do this to keep them focused on the reader, but it's also a way for them to learn from each other what makes good writing. I tell them, "Pull out a piece of paper. Write the name of the reader, then as each person reads, write what you liked about their piece. Be specific, write down what words or phrases made the piece work. Did they use a list? A metaphor? Humor?"

6. Seated in our circle, each student reads his/her poem. After the student reads, classmates raise their hands to comment on what they like about the piece. The writer calls on his/her classmates and receives feedback about what is good in the poem. I rarely comment during this process because students pick up on all of the points I would have made. I do stop from time to time to point out that the use of a list is a technique they might "borrow" from their peer's poem and include in their next poem or in a revision; I might note that the use of Spanish or home language adds authenticity to a piece and ask them to see if they could add some to their piece. After a few read-around sessions I can spot writing techniques that students have "borrowed" from each other and included in their revisions or in their next piece: Dialogue, church sayings, lists, exaggeration.

The following excerpts are from student poems that Lyon's piece provoked:
I am from bobby pins, doo rags, and wide tooth combs.
I am from prayer plants that lift their stems
and rejoice every night.
I am from chocolate cakes and deviled eggs
from older cousins and hand-me-downs to "shut ups" and "sit downs"
I am from Genesis to Exodus, Leviticus, too.
church to church, pew to pew
I am from a huge family tree that begins with dust
and ends with me.
Oretha Storey

I am from old pictures and hand sewn quilts.
I am from the Yerba Buena
to the old walnut tree that is no more.
I am from carne con chile
to queso con tortillas.
I am from farmers and ancient Indians
to the frijoles and sopa
they ate.
Lurdes Sandoval

I am from awapuhi ginger, sweet fields of sugar cane, green bananas.
I am from warm rain cascading over taro leaf umbrellas,
crouching beneath the shield of kalo.
I am from poke, brie cheese, mango, and raspberries,
from Maruitte and Aunty Nani.
I am from Moore and Cackley from sardines and haupia.
From Mirana's lip Djavan split to the shrunken belly
my grandmother could not cure.
Djamila Moore

I am from Aztlan
where many battles and wars were fought.
I am from the strength and courage of the Aztecs
who died for our freedom.
I am from traditions and customs from posadas and quinceñeras
to día del a muerte and buena suerte.
I am from the blood of my ancestors, the dreams of my grandmother,
the faith of my mother,
and the pride of my culture. I am from the survivors.
Alejandro Vidales

I am from the land that struggles for freedom.
I am from the rice field, water buffaloes and cows.
I am from the place where Blood floats like rivers.
Innocent souls are trapped under the ground.
Dead bodies haven't yet been buried.
A beautiful barn becomes a cemetery.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I am from the place I hold now only as a memory.
I am from a family with hearts like stones.
Cang Dao

"Where I'm From" is one tiny lesson in a year of critical teaching. But as we create schools and classrooms that are "laboratories for a more just society than the one we now live in," we need to remember to make our students feel significant and cared about. But these kinds of lessons keep me going, too. When the gray days of budget cuts, standardized tests, school restructuring plans gone awry, and bad teacher room talk pile up one after another like layers of old newspapers on your back porch, pull out George Ella Lyon's poem and invite the stories and voices of your students into the classroom.

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How students can be encouraged to share their personal lives in the classroom as part of a rich writing curriculum. Includes specific notes on teaching procedure.

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Where I'm From

I am from floors scattered with babydolls,

Alice the Fairy opened to a colorful spread,

And crayons of the colors Happy Birthday strewn across the table.

I am from a dollhouse with a screen door,

Open to porch steps worn and grass polka-dotted

From games of Big Bad Wolf and Kick the Can.

I am from the collective of a cul-de-sac,

With neighbors akin to family

And an army of mothers cascading at a moment's notice.

I am from Maureen, from the care and fashion of Alice.

From the warning of “Santa better be good to you girls.”

I’m from the slowly growing aroma of sauce and meatballs on the stove.

And the joy of flour-kissed cheeks

Donned after batches of sugar cookies.

From the albums under the TV,

Brought to life by unprofessionally-directed home videos.

And kept alive through fond moments of reminiscing.

All of which, show I’m from a place,

Marked by the sign above the kitchen sink,

Where “A happy childhood lasts forever.”

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 2/3

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 2/3

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Where I’m From

By Meg Corbett

I am from reading glasses strewn next to

index-card grocery lists and smiley faces

I am from sticky popsicles in the summertime as the oak tree’s shade

offers respite

I am from In-and-Out lottery tickets and a basketball-hoop with no backboard

I am from Kate, Joe, Riley, Dj, and Piki

I am from “be safe” and “make good decisions”

I am from pumpkin bread batter and yellow cake with chocolate icing

I live in painted ballerina jewelry boxes who’s melody

I still hum

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I am from more places than I’d like,

I am from many houses but only one home.

I am from packed bags and taped-up boxes.

I am from Dollar Tree and Public Parks,

And Mr. Sloan’s office with the tray of blue sand.

I am from the corner of the attic

That smells of old books and locked-away memories.

I am from “fend for yourself” meals

And the pause before my mother says,

“I thought Mike was picking you up.”

I am from cleats that smell like “Käsefüße,”

From echoes of acoustic guitar at night

And trash bags filled with toys.

I am from the shadows of some

And the pedestals of others.

But mostly, I am from Icarus and Atlas,

And the flight of a Sparrowhawk.

From the days we choose to walk in the light.

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I am from the big red brick house

with grandiose landscaping on top of the hill

A freezer perpetually stocked with 32 sticks of butter

The lilac bushes and

The Walnut tree

Whose walnuts I would collect in a wagon

every other summer.

I am from from an escape of East Germany,

One blanket and a trip to Ellis Island.

I am from the don’t cry in public

And the wake ups at 7am for Sunday mass

The decision I made in second grade to become a teacher and explore the world.

I am from dozens of pointe shoes that hang lifeless

Once alive from a mini Soviet Russia

15 minutes away from the red brick house

I am from hard working and selflessness

With hair so slicked back my scalp bled.

I am from ‘I Love Lucy’

Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and Bob Marley

Garage sales

Thrift stores

The trinkets my grandma brought every time she saw me

Soccer on Saturdays

And tacos on Tuesdays.

I am from those moments in the big red brick house

And an upstairs hot pink bedroom called mine.

- Faith Drescher

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 3/3

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The Great Author Renée Watson's "Where I'm From" poem, OR, the transcript to the video of her speaking her poem 3/3

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I am from two sides that intertwine.

But are separated all at the same time.

I am from my halmeoni's and harabeoji's two family home in Staten Island.

The one they still live in today.

I barely visit now, going to college so far away.

But that's what they always wanted,

an education and a life for me, away!

I am from that house that smells like kimchi, kalbi, tteokbokki, all the other foods I love.

I am from my mimi's nail salon in Manhattan, her pride and joy. I am from the fresh watermelon, pears, and apples, she cut on a hot summers day.

I am from my mother and my father, who worked so hard for me to be here today!

And the other side, its so different, but its also me, all the same!

The McManus Funeral Home in Brooklyn,

Irish Catholics, from NY.

But both sides of me started somewhere in this country, the one that stole me from my original homes, all but one or two generations ago!

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Where I'm From

I am from messy floors full of American Girl dolls, dress-up clothes, and ballet shoes.

I am from a cul-de-sac where I learned to rollerblade and ride my bike,

A cul-de-sac where I played with my neighbors who no longer live there,

A cul-de-sac that was the last place I saw my friend before he passed away,

A cul-de-sac filled with so many laughs, tears, scrapped knees.

I am from "Wait which child are you again"

And a relief from my mother as she says, "I am happy all four of my children are home for the holidays."

I am from grandma's bad scrapbooks filled with random but hilarious pictures, pottery left on my mother's desk, baby photos of all four of us children on the mantle.

I am from people who love me and never let me forget the happy, loving childhood I grew up with.

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I am from Lao Gan Ma chili oil, from children's Bibles and Wii Sports Resort. I am from pine cones, scurrying squirrels, and pesticide to keep the grass green. I am from basketball hoops standing guard on driveways, Nina's Prius, and the black ice I slipped on walking home in the dark. I am from Gua Kong, who I miss, from Joaquin Tan and Joaquin Yu, my great-grandfathers. I am from eat faster, chew slower, and let's go cooligo. I am from sticky you fan and mustard greens, from the fish ball soup that was Wendy's favorite. I am from tattered folders, a bag of Scrabble tiles, and from that box of paper cranes with a snowman on it.

- Ian Yu

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I am from the smell of my grandmother's chapati lingering in the house,

I am from jina langu ni Natalie, evolving to a simple "I'm Natalie,"

I am from the belief that "it takes a village to raise a child," born into a family of high achievers,

I am from the complexities of troubled American assimilation,

I am from the pursuit of all A's and the pressure to surpass the achievements of generations before me,

I am from the sidelines, cheering on Kenyan runners at the Boston Marathon, prideful of the roots that ground me in the country I call home.

I am from moving miles away to simply get a quality education,

I am from tirelessly speaking up for the black population at my predominantly white high school,

I am from the sound of basketballs bouncing in the YMCA,

I am from the challenge and exhilaration of participating in youth triathlons every year until I was 16,

I am from a tapestry woven with threads of tradition, achievement, activism, and personal growth.

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I am from flowers.

From lilacs and milkweed,

the ones that attract the most beautiful butterflies.

I am from my mother, just like these flowers.

Planted in Spring, blooming in Summer.

I am from honey bees.

From trips to my neighbor's hive,

and from "don't worry, bee stings are good luck"

I am from early-morning watering cans and late-night sprinklers.

From weeding and mulching,

and worms. Lots and lots of worms.

I am from the place only poets write about.

Where the biggest news story covers a broken traffic light.

I am from flowers,

From sunshine and sunshowers,

leaving behind the most beautiful rainbows.

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Where I’m From

by Nicolas Farrell

I am from shared birthdays

two chocolate cakes, double-stacked bunk beds,

and matching faces requiring no mirror

I am from weekend cartoons in the living room

a bowl of sugary cereal in my lap

and my brown labradoodle sleeping on the couch

I am from the Stone Harbor ocean,

born in the New Jersey sand like a shell,

unbroken by waves, amongst the cool

breeze and salty air

I am from splashes of bright color and

infinite words, line after line of poetic prose,

the songs are silent in my ears, but I hear a beautiful chorus between them

I am from Korea, my blood runs with pride

my tongue tastes like the foods:

the bulgogi, the gimchi, the gimbap

a feeling of home and love

I am from the woods behind my

grandmother’s Pennsylvania home

from the streams and creeks

I carry shiny pebbles in my pockets

and swing around stick swords with my brother

like we are knights in a suit of leaves

I am from this.

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I come from far, far away.
From the other side of the Pacific.
Where the snow melts and the moon shines.
We call it the warm south.
I come from the waters that flow through Southern Jiangsu.
The Yangtze's tributaries carry my dreams to the sea.

I come from the end of spring, the beginning of summer.
From the TV in the air-conditioned room that plays a never-ending stream of cartoons.
From the used and tattered literacy cards.

From the humidity of the coming rainy season.

I come from the eyes of my parents.
From their East-Asian, subtle and ambiguous love:
Every kiss and hug.
Every unspoken "I love you".
Or the occasional silence and tears.

I come from a dark-colored door.
Behind which lies the delusion of late-night self-talk.
Words written in my native language.
And things I'll probably never tell anyone else.

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Where I’m From

I am from a multitude of places that I call home

I am from India, from the smell of paneer and hugs from Aaji, Aaba, and Aazoba

I am from hanging clothes on the clothesline, the smell of incense, and the banging of drums

I am from the red tilak on my forehead and barefooted feet in the grass

I am from generations of hardworking people, of teachers, of doctors, of people who look out for others

I am from Ohio, from wind sweeping across my face and children running through flowers

I am from a big brick house on Abbyshire Drive, from my brother tackling me in the backyard to reading books on top of the treehouse

I am from a red farm with horses that came out in the Fall and Spring

I am from nature and from rolling down a hill, covered in weeds and dirt and all things beautiful

I am from a place where everyone treats each other like family

I am from the laughter of many

I am from Massachusetts, where my family settled down

I am from the Indian immigrants of Needham and the parties until 2 am that never seemed to die down

I am from the classrooms of many schools, with children whose faces I have never forgotten

I am from music - from the piano, the cello, the base, and from the sounds of my brother and mother singing

I am from dance, from Kathak, from the dance studio and my calloused feet

I am from the lamps, lights, and love at 46 Rockwood Lane

I am from the ocean, my constant sanctuary

I am from the waves on the horizon and the enveloping of the water around my soul

I am from the salt in my lungs and the droplets against my fingertips

I am from sand against my feet, the ocean floor, from a place that soothes my worries

I am from a multitude of places that I call home

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by Sarah Grozier

I am from half-done art projects, hangers, rocks, and puzzle pieces strewn about the house.

I am from the ocean of the yard in March and seaweed and sand still in the grass in May.

From the chalk on the driveway to bikes in the garage, a place between two lighthouses.

I am from Matt and Jimmy and Becca.

From wicked waters and calm harbors filled with mushrooms and Balls to the sweet corn in the rolling hills of Iowa.

I am from the stamp on the letter, the post office box, and the signature with a heart.

From Mom pizzas to O'Malley's honey mustard and the salty smell of the breeze on the front porch.

I am from nightly sunsets on the seawall and cruises with my chosen family on the boat. Crabbing on the jetty with hot dogs and sea glass hunts to pushing each other off the paddle board.

I am from a town with Irish pride and roots tied to the bottom of the ocean.

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I am what I feel and hear,

The sounds of riding mowers, the scent of sweating, bleeding grass fighting the deep, seedy diesel smoke.

The reliable pump of a music’s mechanical breath.

I am the unfinished, forgotten line.

The plastic imprinted with the Lego trademark.

I am late night video sessions, personal movie showings.

I am cold and sweaty palms, tender from nail and skin overgrazing.

I am properly margined 12-Point Times New Roman.<-Ironic

I am grandmother’s Hobo Bean recipe without the lima beans.

I am cold blinking thoughts swept clean through by the glittering glassy dust of novel splendor.

I am clever word play.

I am untouched glassware.

I am childhood art projects collecting dust.

I am framed in plastic and wood and metal.

I am the moving water.

I am motherly pride, fatherly disappointment.

I arise through trembling boldness.

I am sorry.

I am the windowless hallway littered with old clothes and stuffed toys.

I am lonely.

I am crying for people who never existed.

I am proper grammar with incorrect synonyms.

I am craft mac and cheese.

I am the laminated albums of youthful parents.

I am missing from my life.

I am the wrong format.

I am from sorrowful enjoyment.

I will yet emerge from myself.