I am not a woman
I am not my body
beautiful or disgusting
I am not a thirty-nine year-old
White or Caucasian
Male
My privileges or persecutions
I am not a citizen of the United States of America
I am not a Mormon
former or otherwise
I am not gay
I am not straight
Not bi, trans, cis, or any blend of bending sexuality or gender
I am not my preferences
I am not the clothes I wear
Not what I possess
I am not this fleshy sack of sewn-together stories
Not my past
Not my thoughts=feelings=beliefs=hopes=fears
the neurons firing in my brain
I am not Stephen, Steve, Stephen Joel , Buddy, or Meatball
Not Champ, Tiger, Kiddo, Boss, Babe, or Pal
I am not the words I say
or what I do
I am not my victories or defeats
I am not a brother
an uncle
a son
a lover
a friend…
…and after all things words can name
I am what remains.
This is hard for me. I don’t completely disagree, but it’s hard for me. Is it that I’m so deep in the concrete, with two very dependent toddlers, that I can’t quite let myself plumb the depths of this one? Or maybe even if I weren’t it still wouldn’t feel like a true fit for me?