{"id":1721,"date":"2015-10-19T00:00:40","date_gmt":"2015-10-19T00:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/?p=1721"},"modified":"2017-06-30T18:39:09","modified_gmt":"2017-06-30T18:39:09","slug":"where-im-from-the-collective-poem-that-ended-story15","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/where-im-from-the-collective-poem-that-ended-story15\/","title":{"rendered":"Where I&#8217;m From: The collective poem that ended #Story15"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>Since the first day of the\u00a0conference, Jacqui Banaszynski told the participants\u00a0that she would collect their words for a personal project that she would reveal the next day.<\/p>\n<p>Inspired by\u00a0the work of\u00a0<strong><a href=\"http:\/\/www.georgeellalyon.com\/where.html\">George Ella Lyon<\/a>, <\/strong>she asked\u00a0for personal confessions about important places, tastes, sounds, people, moments and passions &#8211; all written down on post-its.<\/p>\n<p>As it turned out, she used\u00a0all of these to create a collective poem that she and the other speakers read out loud at\u00a0the end of the second day, as a gift to all of us.<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" class=\" size-large wp-image-1724 aligncenter\" src=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A4849-1024x683.jpg\" alt=\"www.catalingeorgescu.com\" width=\"660\" height=\"440\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A4849-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A4849-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A4849-768x512.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A4849.jpg 1500w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 660px) 100vw, 660px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>It was simple and it was big. It was unexpected and emotional. It was the perfect ending to a fifth edition centered on A sense of Place.<\/p>\n<p><a href=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" class=\" size-large wp-image-1725 aligncenter\" src=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204-1024x683.jpg\" alt=\"www.catalingeorgescu.com\" width=\"660\" height=\"440\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204-768x512.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6204.jpg 1500w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 660px) 100vw, 660px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\"><em>For more images from The Power of Storytelling, go to our<span style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/media\/set\/?set=a.450753835102570.1073741839.265317636979525&amp;type=3\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><strong>\u00a0<\/strong><\/a><strong><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/media\/set\/?set=a.450753835102570.1073741839.265317636979525&amp;type=3\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">official Facebook page<\/a>.<\/strong><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><a href=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" class=\" size-large wp-image-1726 aligncenter\" src=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230-1024x683.jpg\" alt=\"www.catalingeorgescu.com\" width=\"660\" height=\"440\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230-768x512.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6230.jpg 1500w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 660px) 100vw, 660px\" \/><\/a> <a href=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" class=\" size-large wp-image-1727 aligncenter\" src=\"http:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233-1024x683.jpg\" alt=\"www.catalingeorgescu.com\" width=\"660\" height=\"440\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233-768x512.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/10\/P4A6233.jpg 1500w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 660px) 100vw, 660px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p>Below you can watch the live performance and read the poem you&#8217;ve all created together and put together by Jacqui:<\/p>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"660\" height=\"371\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/w60Xfr3kDNk?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p><strong>Where I\u2019m From:<\/strong> <em>A rough-draft masterpiece group story-poem \u201cyoufie\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Bucharest, Oct. 9-10, 2015<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> the building where my mother used to live as a child and a young adult, before my father.<\/p>\n<p>Before me.<\/p>\n<p>From the bricked wall of a warehouse behind my block of flats<\/p>\n<p>And the place where I can meet a new stranger every day.<\/p>\n<p>From postcards on my desk wall<\/p>\n<p>And my rented one-room apartment with my boyfriend in it.<\/p>\n<p>I am from my mother\u2019s face every time she sees me come into her home.<\/p>\n<p>My daughters\u2019 sleeping face, a reminder of what love means.<\/p>\n<p>The most peaceful blue eyes framed by the most golden curls.<\/p>\n<p>From plane-spotting at night on a field.<\/p>\n<p>Hundreds of birds making their way into the day.<\/p>\n<p>Flowers, two squirrels in a tree, the train station.<\/p>\n<p>Trees, trees, trees.<\/p>\n<p>From <em>sauvage beach<\/em> in Goa, India.<\/p>\n<p><em>Cismigiu Garden.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Darkness.<\/p>\n<p>I\u2019ll show you a picture on my phone.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> the news on the radio, a football match on TV and dancing music from the neighbors, all while doing my homework.<\/p>\n<p>From rock meets alternative meets heavy metal.<\/p>\n<p>A guitar trill.<\/p>\n<p>No music.<\/p>\n<p>From the sound of the city at nighttime when there\u2019s nobody on the streets.<\/p>\n<p>A breath in a room where you are alone.<\/p>\n<p>A gurgling coffee machine.<\/p>\n<p>Birds in the forest.<\/p>\n<p>The rattle of thunder in the might.<\/p>\n<p>My Whatsapp alert.<\/p>\n<p>From the squeak of the floor of my ballet class.<\/p>\n<p>Angry steps on the wooden stairs.<\/p>\n<p>Bones cracking.<\/p>\n<p>Slammed gates.<\/p>\n<p>A death rattle.<\/p>\n<p>I am from my baby\u2019s laugh<\/p>\n<p>.\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> Angelica, Ene, Ortansa, Constantin.<\/p>\n<p>Filofteia.<\/p>\n<p>Anastaisa.<\/p>\n<p>Minerva, Tacu, Johnny, Cati.<\/p>\n<p>From my great grandmother\u2019s name, that we believed she changed because it sounded too Jewish.<\/p>\n<p>From Radita and Niculiua and Cornelia.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> the innocent love of two teenagers,<\/p>\n<p>And the \u201cI wish I had never gotten married and given birth to you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>From \u201cyou think you know everything\u201d<\/p>\n<p>To \u201cdon\u2019t get lost\u201d<\/p>\n<p>And \u201cwear clean undies!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>From my grandma teaching me how to read before anyone else.<\/p>\n<p>My music teacher who thought I could sing when my mother didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n<p>And that blond teacher who taught me what hate was.<\/p>\n<p>From all the men I\u2019ve ever been with,<\/p>\n<p>And my 6-year-old brother letting me explain to his entire class what \u201cfuck\u201d means.<\/p>\n<p>From my best friend thousands of kilometers away.<\/p>\n<p>And those who didn\u2019t speak the same language as me.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> motorbike riding and paragliding and swimming,<\/p>\n<p>A seaside view room after a chilly walk on the empty beach.<\/p>\n<p>A mattress.<\/p>\n<p>A basement.<\/p>\n<p>The tool shed roof.<\/p>\n<p>The internet.<\/p>\n<p>From my study at home,<\/p>\n<p>And the 6<sup>th<\/sup> floor apartment where he rested his hands on my stomach and his head on my head.<\/p>\n<p>From Marakesh<\/p>\n<p>And my lambada yellow skirt.<\/p>\n<p>My father\u2019s house in the mountains with only the sound of wind as a background.<\/p>\n<p>And Gallifrey, the home world of the Time Lords<\/p>\n<p>I am from an oil knife painting,<\/p>\n<p>And taking photos as eternal memories.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> fear of what I love.<\/p>\n<p>Fear that blocks me but makes me feel alive.<\/p>\n<p>Fear I need never to leave my brain because it\u2019s the only thing that keeps the two of us alive.<\/p>\n<p>From a fear of birds<\/p>\n<p>And losing my teeth.<\/p>\n<p>Of insects<\/p>\n<p>And that my father will die<\/p>\n<p>Where nothing and everything is possible in the same time.<\/p>\n<p>Where my son\u2019s eyes glitter when he spots me.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> the taste of my grandfather\u2019s stewed peas<\/p>\n<p>My grandma\u2019s sour cherry jelly<\/p>\n<p>Fruit with unpronounceable names that only exist in my childhood.<\/p>\n<p>Watermelon and cheese<\/p>\n<p>Bland hospital food and dry vodka at weddings<\/p>\n<p>From tastes that are wet and intrusive<\/p>\n<p>Wood in the winter and sand in the summer.<\/p>\n<p>Sweat that drips in my eyes, especially sometimes when I run<\/p>\n<p>And I don\u2019t know if I\u2019m sweating or crying.<\/p>\n<p>From a kissing game when I was lucky enough to be kissed by exactly the boy I fancied.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> biscuits and lemon.<\/p>\n<p>Mold, mice and smoke.<\/p>\n<p>Cauliflower and boiled potatoes cooked too long.<\/p>\n<p>From a cookie jar and toast and coffee.<\/p>\n<p>The smell of coffee all day long mixed with the rich food my grandmother would make.<\/p>\n<p>Sarmale warming the entire home on Christmas eve.<\/p>\n<p>Gasoline and Christmas-tree shaped air freshener.<\/p>\n<p>From shoe stores that smell like journeys.<\/p>\n<p>My grandfather\u2019s B.T. cigarettes.<\/p>\n<p>A musty basement and linden trees after summer showers.<\/p>\n<p>Freshly cut grass.<\/p>\n<p>I thought January 2003 had the smell of death until I realized it had the smell of grief.<\/p>\n<p>It wasn\u2019t the smell of burning candles and a still body. It was pain.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> a kiss the night before and waking up with his sweet perfume in my hair.<\/p>\n<p>He wasn\u2019t my lover.<\/p>\n<p>From my perfume on his skin, Lacoste White, which I went to smell in Sephora after the breakup because I missed him.<\/p>\n<p>From the smell of five nights violently loving each other<\/p>\n<p>But knowing his Casio watch will dictate our timelessness.<\/p>\n<p>It hits me like a train on a track because he\u2019s not here anymore, and although it\u2019s his cologne I\u2019m feeling, it\u2019s on a body of a stranger passing me by on the subway.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from <\/strong>the touch of my favorite laptop keyboard.<\/p>\n<p>From the button I ripped out from my father\u2019s leather coat when he had to leave me in the hospital for an operation when I was 4.<\/p>\n<p>And the three rings on my left hand which keep me calm when my OCD is crushing me.<\/p>\n<p>From my mother\u2019s slap.<\/p>\n<p>From breast cancer<\/p>\n<p>And a hollow shoulder<\/p>\n<p>And the loneliness of not being touched<\/p>\n<p>From being soaked in the nakedness of the moon.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n<p><strong>I am from<\/strong> 9 years old, falling from a tree, the day I broke my hand.<\/p>\n<p>From centre court tickets to the Wimbledon seminfinals,<\/p>\n<p>When I fell in love<\/p>\n<p>And realized I have to end a 7-year relationship.<\/p>\n<p>From the surprise party my friends threw for my 17<sup>th<\/sup> anniversary, when I felt more loved than ever.<\/p>\n<p>I am from champagne and Corn Puffs on Morii Lake in Bucharest.<\/p>\n<p>From the day I lost my innocence.<\/p>\n<p>From the first note written to me by a boy.<\/p>\n<p>And surprising notes from my husband while he travels alone.<\/p>\n<p>The day I felt my baby kicking,<\/p>\n<p>The day I saw my own child take out of my cut belly.<\/p>\n<p>From the day my father hit me.<\/p>\n<p>And the day I learned to truly forgive.<\/p>\n<p>I am from within my own heart.<\/p>\n<p>I am from the day that didn\u2019t happen yet.<\/p>\n<p>\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Since the first day of the\u00a0conference, Jacqui Banaszynski told the participants\u00a0that she would collect their words for a personal project that she would reveal the next day. Inspired by\u00a0the work of\u00a0George Ella Lyon, she asked\u00a0for personal confessions about important places, tastes, sounds, people, moments and passions &#8211; all written down on post-its. As it turned &hellip; <a href=\"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/where-im-from-the-collective-poem-that-ended-story15\/\" class=\"more-link\">Continue reading <span class=\"screen-reader-text\">Where I&#8217;m From: The collective poem that ended #Story15<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":1722,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[24],"tags":[38,41,57,61,62,63,64,75,76],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1721"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1721"}],"version-history":[{"count":16,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1721\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2926,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1721\/revisions\/2926"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1722"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1721"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1721"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thepowerofstorytelling.org\/edition-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1721"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}