My mother is a professor, and in her literature classes, she uses a writing exercise called "I Am From" to encourage kids to write their oral histories. I am currently writing my first "Origin Story" for a graphic novel character, and hey, I want one of those too!

Am I supposed to believe that only Doctor Manhattan and other comic superheroes are entitled to an Origin Story? I don't think so...

Part One: My Childhood

I am from a white brick mansion in the city, surrounded by magnolia trees, tadpoles and lions carved into the wall, yet I am also from a tiny shack in the country with creaky floors and the stink of poverty. I am from servants and slaves who built the status of my family, and I am from the civil rights leader who gave their music a public voice. I am from beauty queens and teachers, and lawyers and farmers, women before their time and men who died too young. I am from great wealth, white privilege, and the sheriff threatening eviction at the door.

I am from defiance and manners, and all along the way, love, hope and conviction.

I am from a musician and a murder suicide starring that harsh Gilded Age couple in the frame on the wall. I am from Scottish poetry and a determined Civil War bride. I am from French rebel outcasts, ignorance and poverty, and the house of bees. I am from Delta music, that wonderful old jukebox, and endless parades. I am from the baby grand piano, dancing on the pool table, and slot machines lining the wall. I am from blues and classical, rock and roll and the Grand Ole Opry, the out of tune organ and awful choral singing. I am from straight As and awards, with a detour through cursing in Bible class.

I am from a diversion off the traveled road from which I am unlikely to return.

I am from good girls with femme fatale moments, and I am from men both gentle and heartless. I am from champagne and homemade Bloody Marys, Xanax and marijuana. I am from fancy dinner parties, forced laughter, and kept appearances drowning in rules of etiquette. I am from the dirty spittoon, the uncomfortable religion of men, and the submissive wife. I am from prep school friendships, ‘tater tots and cheese, and trucks in the bowels of Mississippi. I am from the turn of the century wooden roller coaster and the peacock feathers laid waste by the electric golf cart at the zoo. I am from the soda machine nestled in orange shag carpet, and I am from upholstered walls and celebrities in the halls. I am from the queen of the Volunteers, and I am from her king who died with titles she demanded. I am from constant fawning and promises of greatness, but I am from tragedy and desolate suburban ideals.

I am from dynastic remarkability and hillbilly irrelevance.

I am from extravagance and thrift, madness and responsibility, adventures and isolation. I am from relentless honesty and occasional intolerance, acute individualism and complete acceptance. Most directly, I am from her, from the best and worst parts of her, from one of a kind. I am not any of these things in particular, but through my family, I am from all of them.

*What is your Origin Story?