Identity

The very first word I identify with,
Shamefully,
is Wimp.

The second label I know fits me,
Proudly,
is Smart.

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.

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