Where We’re From

By Alice Rosenberg & Kendyl Kearly

New York skyscrapers are far from the sky-scraping Smoky Mountains, and in combining our stories, we shared our fierce pride for our homes and the inherent poetry there is in growing up in these places. In responding blackout poems, we become the tourists of each other’s work.

There are certain sounds you get accustomed to, living in cities.
They’re all the same though, aren’t they? Loud, busy— 
Deafening. 
	Yes.
But Manhattan is different. Her cacophony of noise stands out. 
The ambulance sirens here are unlike any other. Their wails echo off brick walls, and only her buses can be heard from ninth floor windows. 
Even her rain, melting from the sky in the middle of summer, fogging up the air, makes an impossibly perfect sound as it slides down office windows and hits the bubble-gum riddled pavement. 
As if every single person living in every single skyscraper had a metronome, but they all started playing at different times. 
	Really?
Yes. It forces pigeons to cower under deli awnings despite their barbed-wire rimmed ledges. 
And the subways. Don’t even get me started on those nail-on-a-chalkboard-ear-splitting metal snakes, those miserable— 
	I thought you loved them?
Don’t be stupid, of course I love them. 
How else would I get from 1st Avenue to 146th Street in less than an hour? Walking, that’s how. 
Along the entire length of the island. Doesn’t seem that difficult at first but the borough sprawls a good 14 miles or so…
I lost my train of thought.  
	Sounds. 
Right! The sounds. All we do is complain about the noises, how they keep us up at night, but the second we get a break and go away for the weekend, we’re suddenly just as sleepless. 
	Because of the crickets?
Because of the silence. 
	I like the quiet. 
That’s because you’re not from here. 
	Oh. I’d like to move there, I think. 
Someday
Of course you do. 
Everyone does eventually.

They’re all the same
Deafening Manhattan noise
Sirens are an echo
Brick can be heard

Windows, rain melt in summer
Fog makes sound down windows, a riddle
Every skyscraper a metronome

Barbed wire and subways start splitting
Metal snakes course from Avenue to Street
The island sprawls a good 14 miles
My train sounds right
The noises keep us away
We’re suddenly sleepless
Crickets
Move there someday, eventually

We’re allowed to skip church
Forsaking homily and sacrament
When the weather’s good.
We plod through Pigeon Forge traffic
Tourists bound for put-put, go-karts, Dollywood
Goods in gift shops that we would never think to purchase
Mountain fudge, leather boots, postcards for those back home.
We brought our own sweets, can’t afford the boots. 
And who would we tell that we’re here?

I trip continually on the tipsy trail
Dirt and sweat caked on overalls knees.
The serious hikers, the ones who saved up
Vacation days for this and own Coleman equipment
They never fall down.
“You’re not too far now,” one says
Heading back toward the Subarus with unfamiliar plates.
We know we’re not too far now.
I hear water. 

We admire Grotto Falls, perfunctory.
“The ice finally melted.” “Beautiful.”
We plop down to munch on dried apricots
Wedges of Laughing Cow, licking dirty fingers.
Only then do I kick off my New Balances and socks
Blood-stained from a dagger of a rock that pierced the sole.
In harsh water, melted snow, my toes touch algae-slimed stones.
“Ready to head back?” “I don’t see why not.” 
I stutter down the familiar slope, blisters rubbing into wet feet. 

skip church
Forsaking sacrament
The weather’s good.
Tourists bound for gift shops 
Postcards
We can’t afford
who would tell?

on the tipsy trail
The hikers who saved vacation days never fall 
too far toward the unfamiliar 
we’re too far now.
I hear water. 

Admire perfunctory.
Finally Beautiful.”
dirty fingers.
New Balances and Blood-stained rock that pierced the melted snow, 
my algae-slimed stones.
I don’t see the familiar blisters rubbing wet feet.

Process

Inspired by the “My Body Writes The Poems” workshop and their very first meeting together, Alice and Kendyl each wrote their own poem about where they grew up: Alice in Manhattan and Kendyl in the Smoky Mountains. They then blacked out the other person’s poem to turn it into a new piece, co-written and reworded by the two of them.