I am a whole person
When I first moved to Texas at the tender age of four years old we lived in an apartment complex. We lived on the bottom floor on the right hand side and directly across from us lived another family. They are mostly blurry images except for the boy who was my age.
He hated(?) me.
I can only assume that he hated me because every time I left the safety of that apartment to play outside that little boy punched me in the nose. There was a bloody trail from where he would hit me (at the stairs dividing our downstairs space) to our apartment door.
His inability to like me never clouded my desire to try. I got more bloody noses in the year that I was four than any other year of my life. I like to think that it was a blessing because I knew that I could take a punch. It was hard to be afraid of a bully who was using words and intimidation as a weapon when I knew that I could handle a punch to the face and still walk away.
I am married to a loving and caring man. I only make that point because I still define myself as a bisexual woman. I have not changed my preference for the comfort of his, or my, family just because I am married. I still identify with the gay and lesbian community, even if they may not embrace me because I have found love with a man.
When I was younger my goal was to be a busy and influential woman. I wanted to be a professional. I wanted to split my time between house and work and I was proud of that. Time and circumstances have molded me in to a housewife and former stay at home mom. I will never say that one choice is better than the other. I still envy the professional woman and their ability to conquer stereotypes. I have just accepted where my life has taken me.
Once upon a time I was an artist. I performed, I wrote, I was creative with every pore of my being. I miss it, but I know that, as things stand, I have no time for it. My priorities have changed.
Sometimes I feel like a social sleeper cell. I am in the trenches of The Deep South. I am surrounded by people in my community who do not believe as I do and I associate with them. I am in their lives. I participate in their conversations and I whisper in their ear without being threatening because, I am one of them. Someone has to stick it out.
I worry about the hate in this country. I worry about the fear. There are so many more voices that are louder than mine, but does that mean that I shouldn't speak?
He hated(?) me.
I can only assume that he hated me because every time I left the safety of that apartment to play outside that little boy punched me in the nose. There was a bloody trail from where he would hit me (at the stairs dividing our downstairs space) to our apartment door.
His inability to like me never clouded my desire to try. I got more bloody noses in the year that I was four than any other year of my life. I like to think that it was a blessing because I knew that I could take a punch. It was hard to be afraid of a bully who was using words and intimidation as a weapon when I knew that I could handle a punch to the face and still walk away.
I am married to a loving and caring man. I only make that point because I still define myself as a bisexual woman. I have not changed my preference for the comfort of his, or my, family just because I am married. I still identify with the gay and lesbian community, even if they may not embrace me because I have found love with a man.
When I was younger my goal was to be a busy and influential woman. I wanted to be a professional. I wanted to split my time between house and work and I was proud of that. Time and circumstances have molded me in to a housewife and former stay at home mom. I will never say that one choice is better than the other. I still envy the professional woman and their ability to conquer stereotypes. I have just accepted where my life has taken me.
Once upon a time I was an artist. I performed, I wrote, I was creative with every pore of my being. I miss it, but I know that, as things stand, I have no time for it. My priorities have changed.
Sometimes I feel like a social sleeper cell. I am in the trenches of The Deep South. I am surrounded by people in my community who do not believe as I do and I associate with them. I am in their lives. I participate in their conversations and I whisper in their ear without being threatening because, I am one of them. Someone has to stick it out.
I worry about the hate in this country. I worry about the fear. There are so many more voices that are louder than mine, but does that mean that I shouldn't speak?
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