I returned this week to my memoir writing class after being away for about two months. I'd forgotten what a delight it is to hear creative people tell their stories and share their memories. An Australian educator once said, "All reading and writing float on a sea of talk," and nothing is more true. He was encouraging teachers to see the importance of conversation in their classrooms if children were going to become engaged readers and accomplished writers. Hearing those people yesterday inspired me anew. Our assignment was to revisit George Ella Lyon's poem I Am From, and I have done so here, reflecting on the years I spent in North Africa.
I Am From
I am from burkas and henna,
from couscous and shwarma
and the labyrinthine alleys
of the old souk.
I’m from the muezzin’s calls to prayer
from the mosque across the street
and the ancient ruins of Sabratha.
I’m from date palms and camels,
Mercedes and Beemers.
I’m from sand dunes and scorpions
and hot ghibli winds
that scorch my skin
and dry my eyes.
I’m from fragrant spices in the bazaar—
cinnamon,
curry,
harrisa—
and long strings of dried brown figs.
I’m from sweet blood oranges
dripping red in my hands,
and the salty tang of fish, fresh-caught.
I’m from scalding glasses
of strong mint chai
held gingerly by finger tips,
syrupy with sugar and lies
told by Ali, the rug merchant,
for surely Aladdin himself
was once a customer.
I’m from Fuad,
the nine-fingered butcher
who speaks five languages
and hangs his naked chickens
from hooks above the counter.
No extra charge for the flies—
or the finger.
I’m from desert oases like Ghadames
made of blinding light
on white-washed walls
and the deep cool shadows
of artesian springs
and from hotels where you bring your own sheets.
I am from inta imshi to the urchins
and shukran to the houseboy.
I am from a villa by the sea
and scarlet sunsets over Cyrenaica
Will I return one day to where I’m from?
Na am, I will, insh ‘allah.
