I am from fallen-apart vacuum cleaners,
sharpen knives and tubs of dulce de leche,
from the scent of purple Fabuloso and bubbling Terma.

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I am from the faded green three-family house I call my childhood home,
near the highway exit over the Quinnipiac River,
surrounded by three gas stations and an empty jungle lot.

I am from the American dream of house ownership, 
a single-family house, that we can finally call ours.

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I am from the roses whose petals are tainted red

from my father’s freshly cut wounds,
and the sweet-scented honeysuckle vines 
that grew over the rusted chain-linked fence.

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I am from generous house cleanings on Saturday mornings
and strong women with our hair constantly kept up
because you always need to prepare to work hard mi vida,
from the love of Alfredo Rosales and Andrea Fernandez.

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I am from a sacrificing and hard-working immigrant family, 
from the first generation striving to achieve success
so, our parents’ sacrifices will not go in vain,
I am the seed planted in this country’s soil, 
from unconditional love and support, I grow and rise.

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From the healing powers of “Sana Sana Colita de Rana”
mixed with Vivaporu,
and soothed to sleep by the soft whispers coming from my mother’s breath
“Arrorró mi niño, arrorró mi sol,
Duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.”

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I am from Spanish speaking masses,
from grand Latino churches scattered across Fair Haven,
from the heavy beats of the drums, the vibrating strings of the Spanish guitar,
and the blaring winds of the trumpets, all playing hymns,
I am from my mother’s prayers to la Virgen de Guadalupe.
From Her Grace, I breathe.

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I am from the rambunctious city of New Haven, Connecticut,
from the city of Córdoba, Argentina
and the nearby pueblo of Villa Dolores
nestled in the arms of Mount Champaquí,
from the flavorful, juicy carne asada grilled in the backyard
and flaky, oven-baked empanadas.

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From the story of my parents' dreams here for us,
from leaving their only home, 
their family, culture, and language,
having to start all over, building a new home

so that their children would have a chance at a brighter future.

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My memories, our memories stuffed in the hallway closet
all loosely kept in a mountain of photo albums,
photos were an immigrant couple’s few brought belongings
and their own property,
proof that even in the shadows we are here.