I have a spotty family history.

My grandmother was impregnated and forced to marry my grandfather when she was only sixteen.

She died, an opioid addict, in her 70’s.

I never knew her when she wasn’t strung out.

I never knew that til it was way too late.

I miss her dearly.

My grandfather was so resentful of her,

he gave her two more children,

adopted a fourth,

then left her for another woman.

My father has no idea how many siblings he really has.

My youngest uncle was groomed by a 25 year old woman when he was only 13– he had a child with her.

They don’t speak.

At 10 years old, my father was raped by a catholic priest, he and my grandmother accepted hush money for decades.

By the time he built up the courage to speak out and go to court, the priest had died.

I was about 7 years old, then.

My eldest uncle has never been married longer than 5 years. I don’t know what happened with him, he doesn’t really talk about it.

Just never worked out, I guess.

This is my father’s side.

My mother has one brother, I don’t know what he does for a living.

He has a wife, who I adore.

He smokes a pack a day of Marlboro black and reds.

My mother’s mother bakes an incredible chocolate cola cake, and keeps two freezers full of food from 20 years ago.

She has a Native American cousin that we don’t talk about.

His name is David. He’s gay too.

My mother’s father was in the navy, he always had a hug and a tickle to give his grandchildren. He has heart problems, but he’s a good man.

A good man, who hates black people.

Who am I?

I am not my grandmother, the addict I adored.

I am not my grandfather, the scoundrel who taught me how to drive a tractor.

I am not my uncle, who let me drive his boat and his race car.

I am not my uncle, who taught me how to love the 80’s with a fervor unmatched.

I am not my father, who wept so often over my strong will.

I am not my grandmother, who still does not speak to me but sends me birthday cards.

I am not my grandfather, who puts money in those birthday cards.

I am not my uncle, with the heart of a child but the lungs of a tar pit.

I am not my mother, who still cannot cry in front of me.

I am not my sister, who forgets I exist.

I am not my cousins, for all that they are.

I am not my aunts, who found their way to these people by means unknown.

But who AM I?

With an emotionally absent mother,

An overbearing father,

An elder sister whom only ever spoke with me to fight over which of us was our parent’s favorite?

It’s me

I’m not sure I’m proud of that.

I was molested,

I was cheated,

I was too impassioned at times,

I was too timid at times.

I believed in things and fought for things in my past, that I am wholeheartedly ashamed of now.

I think of the biggot I was at 10 years old, and I want to vomit.

Is that who I am?

The same biggot with a rainbow flag on my tongue?

I am an error.

Constantly being corrected and expanded like a dough

kneaded and punched before it is given room to rise and homogenize uneven uncertainties. At times I wonder if the baker ever intends to bake me.