We can ignore our origin stories. Dismiss them. Sweep them under the rug. Downplay them.
Or we can embrace them. Sit with their messiness. Explore them to appreciate who we are continually becoming.
"You better not ever bring a nig*er into this house again!"
Grandpa said to Mom when she brought a Black boyfriend home for dinner.
A year later, age 17, she left the house for good.
With my dad. Who was gay, but couldn't and didn't tell anyone.
Mom turned 18, got married.
19, had me.
21, divorced.
Toddler parent, no education, no job, few prospects. Straight ex-spouse of a gay man.
Hippy anti-establishment philosophy of youth segueing into the xenophobic default conservatism of motherhood.
She raised me. Worked two jobs. Paid the rent. Put food in my stomach. Bought me soccer cleats.
He bailed. Free to be who he was. Moved to San Francisco. Became. And died of AIDS.
Not before he taught me about life. Equality. Inclusion. Anti-racism. Truth. Connection. Humanity.
A contrast to the safe, culturally devoid squalor of the suburbs.
I navigated these two worlds – not always gracefully. I became and became and became. Shedding as I acquired. Acquiring as I shed.
I am still becoming. And so are you. And so are we all.
Continually becoming who we are meant to become.