I just don’t get
the girls I went to college with–
the social butterflies,
the big, Miami beach personalities,
voices rising higher than champagne bubbles,
as I wondered who taught them how to draw a crowd,
add more lighting to a room
with smiles and fluid gestures.
You need to understand this, but I’m not
one of my many obsessions, like the girl
I watched fit in like a geometric piece
in improv club or anywhere else with the right
kind of quirks, or the friend who drank beer,
shouted louder than her guy friends, or the girl with attitude
most likely voted to be the “natural born leader”.
I’m not even the American
sweetheart who gets large tips at a restaurant job
and boyfriends with just a smile and a high pitched voice.
No. I am the polar night phenomenon for days
and days in Alaska;
or, the pale gray sky releasing another day of sleet. I am the student
being told “to smile more” in a seventh grade progress report;
the girl told to “speak louder, I still can’t hear you,” or the five
points subtracted from a oral presentation due to “lack of confidence,”
teachers’ yearly “help her come out of my shell” project
(they always failed).
I am the students advising me not to join the debate team,
among other clubs where introverts need not apply,
reading about the power of my personality
in world that can’t stop talking; too reserved to be
girls gone wild or a male’s Xtube fantasy; I can only
watch the life of the party, suited to absorb lives
in a book while curled on a couch, a safe distance
from sensory overloads on Bourbon.
I’m hurrying home at 5 pm to be alone with the radio
down low, spending nights in white satin and other throwbacks.
I am skipping ads that look for workers with a “can-do”
spirit; I throw away ads that have the word “out-going”.
I’m the twelve year old correcting my mother,
“I’m not pessimistic, just realistic.”
I’m more my mother’s husband’s daughter, expressions
As dark as his skin, final gestures, morose frowns trying
To be as sweet as the Creole princess she hoped for
(not this depressive alternative black girl she was given).
I’m the diagnosis, the medication,
the therapy, the girl that jumbles, mutters, whispers
words, slightly better than my aunt’s non-verbal childhood,
but falling far, far behind.
I’m the moody eyeliner.
The blue lips.
The sullen eyes,
The whatever shrug,
The “please make eye contact,”
The bullies’ target
The weird one because I don’t care for the top 40,
don’t care who in the hell is on Housewives of Whatever,
Wondering what’s the big deal about the homecoming dance.
A blank slate where you draw a personality,
Writing phone numbers but expecting no calls or friendships
(better off anyway, they’ll annoy me).
I’m a broken house divided despite the best of my worst efforts,
Taking my time after the bus ride.
I am nothing people chase after.
But this is me, being as honest as I can possibly be.
and thank you for staying.