I am from Fabuloso in Grandma’s kitchen, where strong Clorox bleach pierces your nose, smelly mops erase that luxurious morning smell, from that crimson colored Ajax down at Papi’s store and that old, torn dishrag Mama swears could be used just once more.

I am from the large portrait of my ancestors dancing – the sway of curvy hips, of long legs, and of full lips – covering the sturdy, brown wall in the kitchen, an emblem for all the white girls to emulate.
I am from loud music on my neighbors’ porches, so loud it makes the trees dance, the sky rumble, and Kid ’n Play feel ashamed of their house party.

I am from the well-seasoned collard greens, golden cornbread (“just add a lil suga”), baked mac and cheese, and chicken fried to a crisp.

I am from Sunday dinners, with all of Grandma’s kids arguing loud enough for the babies to hear, from Aunty revisiting old memories from when you were in diapers and Ray doing the Cupid shuffle with the young girls in short shorts and Uncle Ruben spiking the punch.

I am from the deadbeat dads, young boys growing up without fathers, and “I hates you”s, “girl, fix your face,” “wrap your arms around me,” “give your old man a hug.”

From “girl, you better not ask me for nothing while we in this store” and “don’t make me take my belt off.”

From smooth classical jazz, black and white keyboards, heavy hip hop and R&B all the fast kids love.

I am from the strong words of “Thou shalt not sin!” to “Thou shalt not judge thy neighbor” that repeatedly grazed my ears – hypocrites, sinners who then point fingers, and church-goers on high horses.

I’m from the rocky streets of Brick City, where these cold streets are like Alaska’s winters, where bundles of the Brazilian wet and wavy weave is more important than our children’s education, to the country of Congo where the equator runs straight through – blistering sun hitting the Atlantic giving the water that sparkling glow, where melanin runs deep, the purest tone of copper, the sweet taste of plantains and yams that makes every mouth water.

From the time when angry white men in white hoods forced guns to my great-grandma’s temple, when she threw my grandpa behind the brown tree by the road that stood like Clark Kent – long, strong branches wrapped around my grandpa’s narrow limbs –when she got a glimpse at those Devils coming.

I am from Farley and Avon, where the greatest memories of my life were created, where my dad left me and my mother finally noticed me.

And I now sing my diverse America that is sometimes portrayed as horror in a scary movie, but in fact no fictional movie could ever depict this vivid reality. Where everything I receive isn’t just given, but worked hard for with scraped knees and bloody knuckles to show for it. Where churches stand next to liquor stores, but even drunks need some prayer. Where kids like me get picked on for speaking properly, and my decorum alienates them, as I talk like Becky with the good hair and rich parents. My America ain’t too pretty, but neither is the story behind the Mona Lisa.