“where i was from”

A piece that I wrote for class. July 20th, 2020. 1:49 am

Prompt: By noon before class, post a paragraph about a place that comes to mind when you think about “where I was from.” This place could be as big as a country or as small as a nail salon, library, apartment, or drawer.

I am from a tree. I’m not sure what kind of tree, I just know that she grew up in the hot Ghanian sun and that young schoolchildren probably laughed and ran and napped under her leaves until she was brought over on a plane in April 1994 in a suitcase with a man who knew that they’d never be back “home.” She was carved into the word Akwaaba, meaning welcome. And I come from her, Miss Akwaaba. In the curlicue of each a was my mother’s dreams of The Motherland…but I guess she didn’t see that the b was not facing her, it was a man, confused, not sure if he had a home to welcome anyone into.

I am from Akwaaba, I am from the splintery remains of a tree, covered in dust after being neglected in the bottom of a broken dresser full of old CD’s, my father’s cassette tapes from Ghana, and photo albums of people I forgot I knew.

I am from that last a, barely rememberable and recognizable. She is often, if not always, overshadowed by those who come before her: uh-KWAAAA-_buh, she is barely heard.

I am from wood that holds so much history. She is rich and beautiful and strong.

I am from this little Akwaaba sign. I don’t know if she is still there, hidden under the physical reminders of my dad’s past lives in that broken dresser. But I am from that corner, full of history and hopes not met and dreams not actualized, occasionally being exposed to the world as my little sister looks for that Michael Bolton CD, or the cassette tape that has Whitney Houston’s “Lover for Life” and UB40’s “Remember Me.” I am from this ambiguous “welcome” to an undefined place; not the land my father left behind and subsequently spent the last 26 years trying to forget; not the man my mom thought would be the connection to her long lost African roots; certainly not the land who never wanted either of them here; perhaps, not to anywhere.

I am from this forgotten little corner of my father’s world, that has experienced baptisms and birthdays, waakye and meatpies, I am from this little preservation of history, and the symbol of what has been stolen from me.