It's Not A Mistaken Identity

It's Derby Week. The Derby Festival is in half force, thanks to the flooding this year. The Steamboat Race has been postponed, the Balloon Glow was moved to a less-than-mediocre location, and nobody can tell me where the Chow Wagon is. Nonetheless, the Kentucky Derby is a staple of identity for the city. Everyone needs something to make them unique, quirky, individual...everyone needs to know what makes them special to someone else. As cliche as it may sound, everyone needs to know where they came from so they know where to go. Tonight, I'll share a poem I wrote in college; it describes my humble upbringings and gives the scope of my roots here.

Luhvul

I am from mint juleps and jockey silks.

The Ohio River is the great divide where I'm from.

I am from the suburban ghetto,

my house covered in eggshells and BB holes.

I am from a hard-working father who held two jobs

and applied for welfare so I could have a stay-at-home mother.

I am from Sunday drives to the Pigeon Run store,

feeding the ducks at McNeeley Lake,

playing Frisbee golf at Iroquois Park.

I am from the place where mom glared down from the choir loft

if my siblings and I were having too much fun during Brother Don's sermon.

I am from a place where we eat ham and turkey for Thanksgiving.

It's a place where my mom, aunt and grandma made their holiday sweatshirts

with glitter paint and festive fabric cut-outs.

I am from Wiffle ball at family barbecues,

kickball on the playground and T-ball at church.

I am from the Pinewood Derby.

Two weeks of sculpting and creating and anticipating

for five seconds of splendor and angst.

I am from a Redbirds game on a clear Saturday night.

I am from a catalpa tree that was so much more:

first base, a swing set, a jungle gym.

I am from Luhvul. That's right, Luhvul.