My Spanish teacher has propelled me into an existential crisis.
¿De donde vengo yo? Yo no sé.
Where do I come from? I don't know.
Literal: I come from my mother. Her cells divided to form me, a fetus, inside her uterus. I come from my mother. I am a link in a line of strong women, women who followed their passions.
Literal: I come from Philadelphia. I come from the traffic on the streets and the traffic on the sidewalks. I wind through crowds; I walk on cobblestones. I buy soft pretzels on the street; I stop at the Wawa for a snack.
Metaphorical: I am from the loom, woven into a skein of brightly colored wool. Throughout my existence, I will become unwound, then wound tighter again. I will be tugged at and coaxed into forming a shape. Perhaps then I will be agitated and smoothed into one cohesive fabric. I will keep someone warm, cuddled in cold months, wrapped around necks and flung over shoulders. I will need repairs. Eventually I will be eaten by moths.
Metaphorical: I come from a field of music, rhythms and harmonies blending into cacophony. The clink of spoons, the pluck of banjos, the bowing of fiddles. All dictate the beat of my heart. I come from community, a closeness to friends seen only twice a year. I come from shared harmonies, voices in beautiful contrast. I come from campfires and stories, from encouragement and growth, from support and sound.
¿De donde vengo yo? De más puedo decir. De la historia. Del hilo. De la música. De mi familia. Del mundo. Del amor.