Who I am

In an earlier comment to one of my posts, Mom reminded me of the ten-year-old little girl I used to be, who wrote poems for Grandma Ford.

When I was ten, I was struggling to assimilate my sexual identity with the rest of myself. Puberty came earlier for me than for most and, with it, issues and worries about sex and love.

When I was ten, I was trying to deal with my family. They were lovely and hateful, ugly and sweet, bad for me and good for me, and I vacillated in my feelings about them.

When I was ten, I worried about my body and prayed that it was becoming something I would be happy with. I tried to will it to do so.

When I was ten, I began to worry about the kids around me at school and on the bus. Some of them were mean and would physically hurt other kids. Some, mostly girls, spent their time wounding others emotionally.

When I was ten, I was learning to write. I spent much of my spare time reading and writing. I wished I could write as well as the authors and poets I read.

Nothing’s changed.