This poem was inspired by feelings of inadequacy. It was inspired by things unknown and things uncertain.
Perhaps you are one of the rare people in this world confident enough to know exactly who they are and live unapologetically by it. But if you are like the overwhelming majority of us and are not one of those people, I ask you this: who are you in the context of the things that matter most in your life? Not your grades, your resume-building activities, or generic bullshit adjectives but the things that give you substance--your habits, your isms, your taste in food, your fondest memories. I implore you to write it down and read it aloud. You might find that you are a niche all your own.
I Am
I am the daughter of my mother--
a woman whose swollen, rough hands are stained
with the smell of garlic because she insists
on peeling the cloves herself.
I am long walks in the morning when the air is pastel blue
and the houses are quiet--
most times tracked on an Apple Watch,
sometimes not.
Sometimes to the beat of bubblegum pop,
most times not.
I am large ceramic bowls filled with barley and rice
stained purple from the beans grandma folded into it,
canned sardines, and kimchi stored a pyrex container.
I am wooden chopsticks, even on the days the bowl is
filled with leftover spaghetti.
I am hazelnut coffee creamer poured into the sink
when Dad adds too much for my bitter taste.
I am twice-boiled water left in the kettle to cool for too long the first time.
I am forgotten cups of tea on the dining room table,
the bookshelf in the living room, and on the nightstand beside my bed.
I am meaty calves and small ankles
that look best in cuffed boyfriend jeans
and chunky sneakers.
I am choppy high ponytails and safety-scissor fringe
that sweep across square glasses and gentle monolids.
I am hot chocolate and thunderstorms where the rain hits the window
hard like fingertips tapping in a repeating cascade on a table.
I am thick blankets and scratched leather couches
where cold-case thrillers are watched and
melted chocolate chip cookies that were plated too soon are eaten.
I am one-night-two-day trips to Atlantic City--
the outlet mall, the pool. The pizza bread, the seafood pasta.
I am the boardwalk lit up by string lights
and neon souvenir shop signs.
I am funnel cake and singing at the top of the tilt-a-whirl.
I am poetry and short stories--
fiction to those who don't know me,
and perhaps also to those that do.
I am all of the words typed out letter by letter
under the faint glow of the dim kitchen light:
joy, blessed, scared, depressed.
I am the daughter of my father--
a man wearing an ugly orange pullover who sits opposite me
with my runny nose and stained cheeks in a rocking chair
and tells me that he is proud of me
and that everything will be okay.
And I fold my lips inside my mouth
and nod my head to tell him I believe him.
