“What is wrong with you?” The scorn in the words could shred the thickest armor.
What is it about me that makes my dad so incredibly angry?
“What, are you stupid?” He exclaims, his face tight with anger and his fists bunched.
What if his precarious hold on his temper tips over, so his fists are no longer just a threat.
“What are those, tears? You are such a crybaby.” My brother’s words remind me how inadequate I am.
What would happen if I melted away like a forgotten ice cream on a warm summer day?
“What about me?” My mother’s voice is fraught and frenzied as she loses all control
What happens if these unreasoning, disturbed moments are all that are left of her?
What can I do to keep her together, so I’m not left depending on my father for everything?
What is the point of trying so hard, when it’s never enough?
“What is that supposed to be?” I want to shrink as the teacher points disapprovingly at my work.
What is the point of labels like dyslexia and learning disabled, if no one is interested in understanding or teaching?
What happens if I really am too dumb for college and the stories of creating a new life are made-for-TV lies?
What happens if I do leave, and my unstable mother is left to fall in the abyss of mental illness and my father’s care?
What if there is no right choice, and a sacrifice is inescapable as if life really is a horrible fable?
“What are you? A boy or a girl?” The voice titters demanding I justify my existence.
What am I? Why is everyone so fascinated with my sex, my gender, my sexuality, my presentation?
What if everywhere I go, I am just an improperly designed object that is at best a curiosity like some cheap road-stop trinket?
What if words like “fag” and “retard” are indelibly added to my name; permanent marks on all my records?
What if I never grow taller, smarter, skilled and I am as weak and deficient as they say?
What if I am never loved or wanted and my very being is a burden to those who must tolerate me like a birthmark they can’t remove?
What if I am the one who asks questions and I shape my life, not you?
What I am is more than a past that stings as sharp as any slap across the face.
What if I leave these words and memories on the page as a testament to what I’ve accomplished instead of how broken I am?
What I have made is a life that is full, rich, and loving and does not have room for your judgements.
What I am is this. Look. Look at me! This is who I am. I am enough and my life does not belong to you.
The Different Drummer 