What if your identity
Is not found in the big city
But in a small town
Where few people are brown or black
But mostly different shades of white
And every day the sun shines down as they
Continue to fight the good fight
To pay the bills
And maybe some buy the pills
Just to get the thrill
Not thrive, because that would mean breaking out
Of the shell that looked like hell
But to others looked like a quiet Main Street
And a few stop lights
And county fair nights
And a simple, little peaceful town.
Sometimes your identity is not in
Prestige and honor and fame
But in the sincere scene of a gathered team
To pray before a game
Or a group gathered to cry
Over a blown out flame of someone loved
Who just lost the fight.
The good fight.
What if your identity isn’t in big city skies
But catching fireflies
In the evening light
And yelling hey to the neighbor who just passed by
And leaving your doors unlocked at night.
I’m learning, though,
Your identity isn’t where you are
It’s who you are
It’s the stories you carry within you
Not the culmination
Of your awards and accreditations
But your soul
Your sense of why
Your sense of who you are.
No matter how far away you go,
Hold onto your identity,
like a rope,