OCTOBER 2025
The 4th graders wrote poems about identity last month.
Inspired by George Ella Lyon, they typed their own “Where I'm From” poem, line by line:
“I am from my grandparents’ pear tree, whose lovely branches are always loaded with pears.”
“I am from jazz with its lively beat.”
“I am from those moments when I am full of wonder.”
I stood in front of the bulletin board, reading them in between lessons—each one a written reflection on where we’re from, what shaped us, and what we represent in the world.
I was reminded that identity is both collective and deeply personal. Because as much as we have in common, there is so much that sets us apart.
No one else has your same background, values, and perspective on the world. No one else has your same set of experiences or influences. No one else shares your same talents, loves, and ambitions.
And this is important—not only to recognize in yourself, but to honor and acknowledge in others.
Our differences are our strengths, our unique contribution to the world. And this diversity is what makes it whole and beautiful—a mosaic of color, sights, and sounds to discover and experience. A place for all of us to bring our full selves, learn about things outside our own experience, and participate in a meaningful exchange.
This is what we do through music: It’s patterns and shapes, emotions and style periods. It’s African-American spirituals and Taylor Swift, Bach and bebop, Barbara Aren’s preludes and Piano Man. It’s listening, observing, and making informed decisions.
The “I Am From” poem is a reminder of where you’ve come from and what’s influenced you. It tells your story. Here’s mine:
I AM FROM
I am from paintbrushes
from Tasha Tudor’s gingerbread and
my Mary Engelbreit journal.
I am from the lake
(Rippled, gleaming,
and warmed by the sun.)
From blue and white hydrangeas, magnolias
with glossy green leaves
and petals cupped to hold the sunlight.
I’m from Southern hospitality and olive skin.
I’m from the extroverts and entertainers
from Neapolitan ice cream in a stoneware mug.
I’m from the piano
from Bach, Debussy, and Schoenberg.
I’m from butter cookies and pasta with homemade red sauce.
From “Edelweiss,” NYC, and homemade apple pies.
Two photos hang in matching frames in the foyer:
one of my grandparents on their wedding day
and one of me on mine.
I am from these 100-year-old plaster walls
and white oak floors
from this story, this legacy.
This is a reflection of me. What about you? Send me a line from your “I Am From” poem—I'd love to read it.
