I am from rice fields and rainy afternoons,

from mango trees and roasted corn by the roadside.

I am from the warmth of my Lola’s arms,

and the smell of garlic frying at sunrise.

I am from karaoke songs that echo on birthdays,

from jeepneys rushing past painted walls.

I am from mano po and “opo,”

from family photos taped to the fridge.

I am from prayers whispered before dinner,

and stories told by candlelight during brownouts.

I am from islands and smiles,

from adobo steam rising like memory.

I am from sweet tea and Sunday soul food,

from cornbread warm in Grandma’s kitchen.

I am from front porches with creaky swings,

and the sound of blues floating from the radio.

I am from braided hair and cocoa butter,

from gospel songs and “yes, ma’am” manners.

I am from voices that rise in prayer,

and laughter that fills the living room.

I am from freedom marches in photo frames,

and poems passed down like stories.

I am from roots deep as oak trees,

strong, proud, and still growing.