My mother is home after yet another surgery on her failing body. Her lupus and RA are slowly doing away with every part of her. Sometimes she cannot even get out of bed because her joints are so inflammed that it hurts to move. I have seen this since the day I was born. And it has hurt me every time I think of her dying.
My mom has an upcoming surgery. It's her fifth one. Her lupus is slowly deteriorating her body and RA isn't helping any. Her surgery was orginally scheduled for las Thrusday. Now it's for this Wednesday. And I didn't thik I had a reason to be at all frightened. That is until I came home 7 nights ago to find my mom completely drunk and near hysterics.
On today, of all days, it suddenly occurred to me that spoken word poetry has linked its way to my life. I’m not a die-hard. Far from it. I love performing, but I’ve only done it a couple of times. Nothing to compete with the poets I know and admire.
After finally receiving an acceptance letter from my top choice college, I have begun to fantasize about the turn my life will take.
It’s official. I’ve been accepted to my top choice college. And I have every intention of going. Why wouldn’t I?
I worked very hard to get to where I’m at right now. I’ve fought against stereotypes and personal hardships. And I’ve done it all without giving up.
“Yeah. Just thinking about that is so sick I could kill myself.”
“Oh definitely. Commit suicide.”
“Maybe drink some bleach.”
Yeah, that’s right. Make jokes.
“Take a razor and just slash.” Abby says as she pretends to drag a razor across her wrist.
I’ve always been aware of the double minority blood flowing through my veins. I’ve always known that I am always going to be different from someone; my tri-racial heritage is always going to exclude me from something.
