Who am I if I am independent of the people who make me?
Who am I without requiring parental approval of my every decision? Who am I if I am not eyeing every man I meet and considering him as a prospective partner? Who am I if I do not envy my friends their open beauty and unquestionable happiness? Who am I without my reflexive disdain for people less intelligent, or less thoughtful, or less artistic, or more obliviously satisfied? Who am I without my self-deprecating predictions of human behavior? Who I am I without my observations of strangers? Who am I without my inclination towards service? Who am I if I don’t adapt according to people’s expectations of me? Who am I without a fear of my past encounters? Who am I without my arrogance and without my shame, and without the continuous search for my place in society? Who am I when there is nobody to watch me perform my role as girl, daughter, friend, acquaintance, quiet, crazy, angry, bitch, saint, teacher, thinker, innovator, chatty cathy, negative nancy, barista, student, sister, or stranger?
Perhaps I am something not solid,
Something drifting in and out of existence and reality.
Oh, but that can’t be. That is far too pretty and desirable and easy.
Stripped of the world of people surrounding me, I am scared
And I am small.