Me, Myself, and I
Me, I, the writer of these words.
Me, I, the thinker of worlds.
Me, I, Creator, destroyer, lover, and friend.
Me, I, the one who was born,
The son, the brother.
Me, I, this is my name.
Male, man, hu-man
What is in a name, a title, a brand?
Strength and weakness?
Power and hope?
Joy and despair?
These I know well,
These I know well.
But who is Me?
Who is I?
Am I merely the one born to parents of military status?
Am I merely the one born male,
Strong, sturdy, the pride of my kin?
How many others were not given this gift,
And suffer the rage of a society fashioned by the phallus.
Am I only powerful because of this member?
Am I only sought because of its implications, its allure, its invocations?
The image of Gods, Kings, and Warriors!
I beat upon my chest…and cry into the dark night of conventionality.
I hold my head in shame.
What is thrust upon me is at another’s expense,
A price I did not have to pay.
The benefits I reap every tick-tock of the hand,
The bell tolls,
Yet, I sleep soundly.
Born in status, I knew no hunger,
No fear, abuse, or lack.
All things needed were provided graciously,
All things wanted were oft’ given.
This is my privilege.
Choices I did not make.
Benefits I reap soundly.
Pleasures enjoyed fully.
Outside my castle, my care and concern,
Are those forgotten by my tribe.
And every year’s end my heart is pricked with their deaths, despairs, and cries.
What was given up for me to live like this?
I fear I did not pay that price.
The streets heave and sigh like a laboring mother,
Trying to bring dreams to life.
And upon the asphalt, foster, and care that child will die.
Dreams of light will leave their hearts, never nurtured, never gained.
The world altogether suffers from this loss.
But Me, Myself, I flourish.
I will grow and realize my dreams.
I stand on giant’s shoulders and every mountain will bow to me.
Outside my window, are those who died.
The mountains I were afforded, leave many souls in their wake.
I did not pay their price and they were not afforded my prize.
The bell tolls.
Sheets and covers over head,
I do not see, I do not hear.
I sleep soundly.
Like my parents upon my conception.
I was born.
Stop for a second as the images of that one world fills your mind, your heart, your soul.
There are many images for this.
Like the night sky, I entered this world.
My bright eyes like stars.
And it wasn’t long before I knew.
Before, the realization hit me.
Before, innocence was lost.
That “black” meant something else.
See, I was born with a stigma.
I was born with a curse.
The mark of Cain.
I can assure you, I’ve heard it
Nigger, Colored, Negro, Negro American, African American.
And some have even thought it
kind to compliment my intersections.
You are such an Oreo.
You talk white, and proper, and good.
Regardless, the insinuation is that this Oreo was raised being dunked in white milk.
It soaked in.
I failed to turn the milk chocolate.
And have been rejected by many from my tribe.
Apparently I gave up too much.
Sacrificed too much.
Lost too much.
Rejection is akin to death.
The loss of a communal identity can be devastating.
These choices I did not make.
Yet the price I pay is steep.
The bell tolls.
My tear soaked pillow welcomes me tonight.
If privilege is a gift,
Then life has a way of making it less than faithful.
It’s like giving you a four-course meal with no way to taste or smell it.
Me, Myself, and I,
A trifecta of fleeting breaths,
Were born with power.
I was born with status.
My “member” would have solidified my rank.
Me, myself, and I could’ve been set, for life.
Yet privilege is a fickle bitch,
And her tricks are all too uncanny.
Me, Myself, and I were born with
Me, Myself, and I were born,
With the mark of Cain.
Undesired, unworthy, uncouth.
Me, Myself, and I were also born
with power, rank, and one simple gift.
In this gift was the prowess to subdue,
The mere essence of presence.
The determining factor among those with power and those without.
As fate would have it,
Me, Myself, and I were also attracted to other men’s determining factor.
I was born with status,
Yet crippled with a mark.
I, Myself was born with power,
Yet my proclivities are for a more masculine fair.
Down from my mountaintop I fall.
Hurling from insults and ridicule.
Faggot, queer, abomination, God-damned.
I thought I was the image of the Gods, Kings, and Warriors
Me, Myself, and I.
My sentence is pronounced.
My fate is clear.
Hell, would be my resting place at the end of this life.
When the bell tolls.
With my privilege stripped away,
I leave my castle,
My shelter for many years.
Out into the darkness where dreams die.
The underprivileged, the forgotten, the abandoned.
Choices were made without my say.
I paid a heavy price.
The bell tolls yet again,
No bed to welcome me tonight.