Where We Come From

We come from stardust, our bodies made of ancient elements.

We come from single cells evolving over billions of years as did all life on Earth–bacteria, trees, animals!

In time, we became humans who spread out around the world. We come from place, language, and spirit. And each of us comes from story.

I come from Mni Sota Makhoche, a land of forests and clear lakes where cornfields remember a vast prarie, a sea of tall grass home to bison, burrowing owls, and Dakhota skipper butterflies.

I come from Korea–green mountains, black rocks, and cold springs, wet moss, giant frogs, and pine trees winding around shadows.

A city grown by the river. That’s where I come from. Named for the stands of bur oak trees, this city called Ann Arbor is mine. Our stately old train station downtown sits not far from an arboretum with iris and peony gardens that spill into fern walks.

I come from the North, wind-whipped, snowy afternoons, when dark comes early, from Minneapolis, a combination of Dakhota and Greek words, waterfall city on the great river, Mississippi.

 

I come from hitunkakanpi, old stories told in winter by the fire, passed down from countless generations. Unktomi the trickster helps us remember what  the elders teach: to be Dakhota, you must be a good relative.

I come from a long line of dark-haired women who washed rice, spun silk, and wrote poems. I come from stones and trees with spirits, Buddhist temples in the woods, nine-tailed fox folktales, tigers, and red-crowned cranes.

I come from people traveling, stories from two continents. One group in Ireland, the other somewhere in West Africa, planting and harvesting parsnips and barley, yam and okra.