I AM FROM HEAT. A place with sun, maybe too much, but it's sorely missed when you take it away. No room for chill, except briefly for a dip in a chlorinated pool. (I don't know what to do with this saltwater nonsense.)
I am from sweat, dried sweat layered beneath wet sweat, protected beneath pimples that make my face sting and make me feel less-than human, less-than beautiful, less-than desirable, but these are my greatest strength: if I do not worry about beauty, I can focus on love, and through that I can bring people close to me to ease my perpetual insecurity.
I am from Christmas tamales with people my parents hate and who also hate them back; I am from putting on a social face and giving all the expected answers--
Yes, I'm doing well in school;
Yes, I love Jesus;
Yes, I love you, too.
Even though I only really like the reading-stories part of school, and the teacher praise when I've done well; even though I think Jesus is a metaphor and I doubt what my church says; even though I see how you all smile on top of your lies.
This piece is brought to you by Libba Bray's workshop at SCBWI, "Digging for Truth," in which participants were encouraged to "name your secrets" and "honour them by acknowledging them." The piece is a 10-minute timed freewrite based on the prompt "Where I'm from."
Photo source: COPD Living
PART OF THIS COMPLETE BREAKFAST
Blog not recommended for sober consumption.