Still a struggle.

Once again I find myself sitting in my African American Studies class grasping with the idea of Identity and how I identify myself. Words are thrown around like Heritage, Ancestors, History, Pride, Art, Culture, Community.


My history is the history of the world. A bastard child, orphaned and left to float from one place ot another. My story so different from the masses but to similar to the few. Placed in foster care from the get go, drugs and alcohol flowing through my veins, born 3 months too early. Arbitrarily named and categorised into the system, set off into the world. At the mercy of young yuppie couples who were in search of an "Instant Family" and couples that just wanted the notoriety for fostering and adopting who could have and did care less about their newest arrival. The same sex couple who wanted to start their own family and prove everyone else wrong falling somewhere in between. And finally the people who actually cared about the child they were bringing into their home, wanting to give them a family and a safe place to live.

21 years later I still yearn for that sense of belonging. It's easy to say it doesn't matter but it's even harder to believe it.

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