I come from immigrant parents who escaped the pogroms of Russia, sailing steerage to the Golden Land.

I’m from Bronx city streets with playmates on cement steps, cutting out Gone With The Wind paper dolls, jumping rope, bouncing pink rubber ball to A my name is Anna and my husband’s name is Albert.

I’m from Simpson Street, two blocks from the IRT elevated train. Hear the rumble of the engine; the click clacks of the wheels; the screeching of the brakes.

I’m from summers in the Catskill rooming house; shared communal kitchen; wraparound porch; rocking chairs pounding on the wooden floor. Cast iron water pump providing delicious icy water.

I’m from the blueberry bushes across the road. The abundant bushes welcome the pickers to partake in the summer bounty. Poppa will fill his big pail. My small tin will be brimming over.

I’m from the Blueberry Queen cooking blueberry pierogi, baking blueberry pie: Momma, blue stained fingers, blue stained apron.

I’m from Poppa, singing Yiddish songs, teaching me Tumbalalaika, Tumbalalaika.

I’m a Lindy hopper, bobbysoxer swooning to Frankie’s velvet voice.

I come from Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary, joining them in song at Vietnam Peace Rallies. 

I’m from family celebrations of Jewish holidays; Passover matzo balls swimming in chicken soup, gefilte fish smothered in spicy red horseradish. Dayeinu.

I come from handmade gifts and homemade cards. I come from warmth and love and a long-blessed life.

Now, you tell me — where do you come from?