Select A Box

Select A Box

They ask me to write down my race

And I think very seriously

And consider writing down the truth

And have my answer read

I am not a box.

I can’t be boxed.

I have history.

I am the ancestor of Cowboys and Outlaws,

The Younger Brothers share my blood.

You can follow the family tree back to Andrew Jackson,

Best known for his role as US President.

But my Papa worked for the GBI,

He helped Georgia towns fix their “Black Problem”.

I am a blend of nationalities.

The red hair gives me away as Irish,

My ancestors were refugees from the Potato famine.

Emily means Hard working

It is French/ German/ Latin/ Teutonic.

Who knows where that came from?

Wilcox is English and means son of Will.

We have a cross stitch of my family’s crest.

But Baird is a strong Scottish name,

Last year I picked up a scarf with the Baird tartan

I wear it with pride every winter.

I come from many places.

Dad’s parents are strong southern Baptists from Georgia,

And my father followed closely in their footsteps,

Though he married a woman, who was a Marine, A catholic, and a Yankee.

Mom didn’t know her mother’s first name.

Grandma Baird was an alcoholic.

Mom was 1 of 7 children.

She was in and out of foster care, and other homes,

From Kansas to Minnesota,

Depending on how life was going.

I moved around a few times as a child:

2 homes in Georgia, 2 in North Carolina, and then Tennessee.

I am an individual.

I love Sushi and Hot wings equally.

I am intrigued by history,

And I really only enjoy fiction.

I am passionate about travel,

And trying brand new things.

I strive to be independent,

And to have a life of my own.

“So what box do I fit in?

Is there a box that encompasses every facet of my being.

If you insist on ‘boxing’ me, listen to my story.”

I want to say.

But I stop

And simply write down:

White

Where I Come From

I am graduating from college in less than a month. Recently i have found myself wondering where I am from, where my home is, and where I am going. It’s been rather difficult. I moved around a few times as a child. There were places where I never felt like I fit, and places I felt completely myself. Then last year with the break-up of my parents, the idea of home seemed more elusive than ever. Today in class, we read a poem by George Ella Lyon called “Where I’m From”. I recommend everyone take the time to look that up and read it. But, in turn, we each wrote our own poems. (I guess I’m in a very poetic state of mind with this class). So, here seems to be my answer about “Where I Come From”?

Where I Come From

I come from Lemonade stands,

from North Carolina Barbeque and Block Parties.

I am from tree climbing, the hole in the fence, and eating watermelon in my underwear

with sweet sicky juices running down my body.

I’m from Boxcar Children books,

Shel Silverstein and Louis Sacchar.

I’m from Disney VHS tapes watched a million times over,

David the Gnome, Grilled Cheese, and “Stories out of the Mouth.”

I am from a slap on the face and

“Kiss your sister and make up.”

I am from “Cattie” not Katie,

and the love/hate relationship that comes with sisterhood.

I am from backyard teap parties, dress-up games,

and rushing home to play maids in our white slips after church.

I still have the old diaries, where I was half committed,

so they’re barely written in,

old photo albums full of blurred pictures,

because my hand didn’t fit around the camera just yet.

But I still remember the moments.

I am from those moments–

smudged, scratched out, a little too dark, with a thumbprint in the corner–

but they are mine.