Who am I at this intersection of my future and my past?
White trash. Upper class.
I will never be what you expect with my redneck mannerisms mixed with erudite speech.
I grew up with tacos and enchiladas and ramen and potatoes and meat.
You used to sneer like I was the ground under your feet.
What does it mean to be a waste person? What does it mean to be valuable instead?
Who decides. Who cares?
I will never be good; it is too late.
Do I always have to be bad? Is that just my fate?
People alternate between telling me how strong I am and how fragile.
I am a whiner and I cry too easily, clearly I only do so to manipulate.
That is how it goes with white women.
I cannot be something other than what I am.
I read on the internet that I should be very angry by someone pointing out that I am white. Oh.
Dude. I know.
I know how my whiteness has shielded me and revealed me as unworthy of camaraderie.
At some point it becomes apparent that I just belong nowhere at all.
I hide in my house. I try to make myself small.
I try to not take so much from people. I know that anyone would be more deserving of it all.
I want to hurt myself; it is how I atone for my sins.
I am told I must not. I must try to create a path for my children to step in.
Children mimic and copy, they cannot help but do so.
Do as I do my dears. Talk about your feelings. Write them down. Breathe through.
Maybe it will feel like enough for them. It never does for me though.
I am not enough. I never will be. I will always be too weak and small.
People who have suffered more than me do not waste so many years hiding and crying.
The world is too big for me. I feel like I am out of trying.
I am out of ways to try to be enough. To try to be good.
No matter what I do I never arrive. I’m not even sure if I could.