The very first word I identify with,
The second label I know fits me,
My grandma tells me I am
“good as gold”
when I don’t get in the way.
The first time we move
I embrace the chance
to change my name, my identity.
I’m a tomboy now, a softball player.
I have short hair and I don’t own skirts or dresses.
Another move, another name change, another makeover.
I am alternative, sporty, punk, goth, beachy, and raver. I try on identities like outfits, looking for one that fits me.
I feel like a poseur, an imposter, a fake.
“Be yourself'” peole say, as if I knew who that was, one million costume changes later.
Now my longest running role is winding to a close, years ahead of me. I won’t play the part of Mother to a Young Boy forever, and I don’t know who I will be next.
I thought my identity crisis years were over in high school.
I guess not.