If I said I was from Hunan, China, where old and young break their backs to grow food in the isolated land, would you know where I’m from?
Where I’m from the land is turned year after year to produce food for the cities. Men and boys direct water buffalo over the rice paddy, from dawn to dusk. No matter how tiresome and hard, they continue on knowing that sweat and long hours will eventually put money in their pockets for their family. The aroma of growing rice fills the air.
Where I’m from the paved streets, aren’t paved, they are bare and cracked, no care put into them, only history.
Where I’m from the means of transportation are bikes, rarely cars. They clink and clank down the battered streets through the small town.
Where I’m from old women sit outside their run down homes, watching their small world. Their eyes follow stray dogs that wander up and down scavenging for a meal. They exchange monotone hellos to neighbors but that’s about all the excitement they will have in a day.
Where I’m from its rare to see an American. When one appears there are immediate whispers and pointed fingers, even more when it’s a white American and a teenage Chinese girl, walking as mother and daughter. They are foreigners yet they have a strong connection to the place. Visiting only lasts for so long but the memories will be forever etched in their hearts.
Where I’m from there is beauty but it’s rare to find. Beauty can be found in the tall sacred mountain where both Buddhism and Taoism are practiced in harmony. The mountain is an open door embracing the dreams of poverty stricken lives; that hopefully can be filled one day.



Referring to the poem by Willie Perdomo