identity

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

To survive.

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,

steadfastly.