Birthright
a poem for the rest of us
“Freeing yourself was one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another.” ― Toni Morrison, Beloved
The following poem will be featured in my next book which is due to be published by Beyond the Veil Press sometime next year.
I’m proud of this manuscript because it’s a love letter to maligned and targeted identities.
My last book, Heretic, was a journey through a history of religious trauma and emancipation from abusive dogma. It was about my own pain, but a way to reach out to others who’ve had similar experiences.
This upcoming collection is a departure from all of that. Because I want to move on from my pain and my story to giving attention to what others are going through.
I teach at a school where the majority of students are first-generation college students, immigrants or children of immigrants. Just recently I had them write a paper on what it means to be an American and I’ve been thinking a lot about that myself.
This poem is response to those who believe the only ones who get to claim they are Americans are those who happen to be, by no merit of their own, born here.
Sending out love to those who need it the most in these frightening times.
Birthright Tell me, how did you choose your mother’s womb? Did you sit among angels and gods, flipping through manila folders for neurotypical brains, and healthy hearts? Did you graph income brackets? Did you dog tag stock portfolios before conception? How did you earn the colors of your flag, the stars and stripes? What did you pay for your birth country? When did you hear the anthem calling you? Was it as your nails grew in utero, or right as they cut the cord? I wonder too, about the color of your skin. How long did you peruse the swatches before settling on ivory or strawberries and cream? What sorcery ensured you’d be born a man who only loves and desires women? A man whose sex aligns with his spirit? I marvel at your body. As if it has been cut from dominant and sought after cloth, every organ designed with precision, free of disease, and every limb and digit, in its default position. Because the rest of us want to know your secret. The rest of us, who’ve crossed borders to save children. The rest of us who have dodged bombs but not bullets, the rest of us who hold up signs asking you to spare us. The rest of us who wave our flags once a year, still it feels one month too long. The rest of us who fear being disappeared, or imprisoned, discarded or maligned, rejected or vilified. We want to know what more you have inherited and what else you take for granted.