Self Expression Magazine

From the Curious Depths of My Backpack #1: "Where I'm From"

By Danielleb

The Keeper of Secrets


When I found a treasure trove of old writing assignments in my backpack, I thought: "Why throw these away? Why not post them?" Thus, a new post-series was born! Some of these old assignments might be quite comical; others might be incredibly sad considering all that's happened in the past few months. But whether they're works of art or worthy of the waste bin, they represent my journey as a writer. 
And yes, I made that sound more dramatic than it actually is.

"Where I'm From"Written September 16, 2010
I am from a refrigerator whiteboard graffitied with witticisms that weren’t there when I went to bed, left either by curious Keebler elves or a brother hunting for a midnight snack.
I am from a 72-degree home with a thermostat-happy father, the lingering effects of last night’s salmon, and the blare of an electric guitar in the background.
I am from the water drip, drip, dripping down into our lush lawn and coloring it green, the perfect backdrop to a quiet, contented, neighborly cul-de-sac.
I am from sitcom marathons, cookie-baking escapades, hilariously painful pun sessions, and Sunday morning “Mom-always-wins” bowling. From Darrin, and Dee Dee, and DeWayne, and Donna; a litany of D’s.
I am from breakfast for dinner when no one feels like cooking, and Power Naps on drizzly afternoons.
From “don’t pick your nose or your eyeballs will fall out,” “don’t make me turn you upside down and shake your socks off,” and other threats only grandmas can muster.
I am from parents who have allowed me to make my own choices: from secularism, to humanism, to Unitarianism, to feminism.
I am from the bustling metropolis of Parkland, Washington, with infinitesimal flecks of “Polish” buried deep. From homemade lasagna and salty, buttery pierogies. 
From instances we’ll never let the butt of our jokes forget: falling out of a truck at the gas station, falling into a yard waste bin, and then into Iron Creek (poor Mom).
I am from the box of pictures under my parents’ bed, saved for Christmastime, birthdays, and drizzly afternoons (after Power Naps). 
By the four-hundredth picture of my brother’s chubby, smiling baby-face I tease: “What? Did you get sick of taking pictures by the time I came around?” 
But deep down, I’m happy. 
Irrevocably happy.

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