Italian Household. I am from poem.

I am from:

I am from a big drowsy Catholic church,
Haggard, old-as-time Wednesday night CCD scolding,
And squeezing cheeks godmothers.

I am from “elbows off the table”
A little too hard arm squeezes,
Deep voices of warning,
Winks of encouragement from across the soccer field.

I am from a yelling and screaming,
Typical American household, hiding upstairs,
Between “I’m staying at dads”,
Or “that is what mom said.”

I am from all day boiling
too-spicy-for-my-liking tomato sauce,
Aunt Joanies Italian wedding soup and oil and vinegar salads,
Comfort foods of spaghetti and meatballs.

I am from boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations,
Up and down the basement stairs,
Looking like santa threw up everywhere months before he even comes,
Saying “If you don’t believe, you wont receive.”

You can see it in my eyes,
The fear of my genes,
Alzheimers and heart disease.
The racism that brought my grandparents here to America
To give their own parents the finger and get married.