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I grab my pen and make a list on my leg where there is still space left to write. Things I am: A girl. A Boricua. A fucking genius. A seer. A mystic. An insomniac. An Underdog? An astroNOT. Queer. Pan like Baldwin said? Things I am not: a bad person. A good person can make mistakes that hurt other people sometimes. Like I did with Nelly. A bad person doesn’t give a shit. I give a shit.
My moms and I haven’t exactly made up. I have can’ts of my own. The main one: I can’t be anyone but myself.
Who is myself? Myself is queer. Myself has mental illness and needs to take pills so I don’t rip out my hair. Myself can be a scientist and a poet. And the truth is, myself ain’t entirely myself yet. Why do I have to have myself figured out already? The answer is I damn well don’t. And once I get myself figured my out, I’ma try something new and start all over again. Myself is also sort of talking to myself.
The truth is, loving myself is not a given. It’s hard work sometimes. And loving other people is hard work too—if you’re giving them the love they deserve. But love is something we all have to do for ourselves, and for each other. It’s the only thing worth fighting for.
