How It Feels To Be Unlabeled Me

Written April 17, 2003

Inspired by Zora Neal Hurston's How It Feels To Be Colored Me


How does it feel to be unlabeled me?

Am I generic?  I cannot be

How to define an elusive label?

Enlighten me, please!  If you are able

So many parts, so many fractures to see,

Like a cubist version, I seem to be

Cracked and broken, glued whole again.

Overlapped and upside down, with no end.

One dimension of me is the artist within.

Three dimensions of me is the children - oh, them?

Another dimension is the husband - oh, he?

How in the world does he put up with me?


More questions than answers

More love than hate

Less time for them all

Less of me, I'm late

Never-ending - pouring in, pouring out

My cup runneth over - I shall not pout

Twirling in circles, our world's a wonder

Shades of gray to me, 'wilst I'm torn asunder

Do this, do that - be here, be there

Don't forget to breathe the beauteous air

Look at the moon, so round and so bright

Feeling the pressure squeezing me tight

I'm a many-armed octopus

A split-persona - salutations from us

Mommy and honey, sissy kay and [GASP] witch

So many Me's, I forget to switch

Cynical one minute, solemn in thought

Not comprehending the disasters we've wrought

Continuing my journey, the answers are there

Optimistic I'll receive my lessons to bear

Traveling in books to lands far way

Knowing in the end, I'm right here to stay

Deepening my reserves, exploring and delving

In this life what I've learned - sorting and shelving

People might say as a Mom I'm a mess

My daughter wears cowboy boots with her dress

The beds are unmade, the laundry's in piles

Let's take a walk, keep trekking for miles

Homework gets done, but maybe tomorrow

Talk to me please, share each joy and each sorrow

We try to remember to kiss and to hug

I'll leave the dishes, just give me a tug

My siblings are many, 4 girls and 3 boys

Still just as crazy as when we fought over toys

The Adventure People are upon my shelf

Reminding me plenty of all aspects of self


Pippi reprises our patches and tears

Still laughing loudly at our ridiculous selves

When we're together - it's thunderous roars

Conspiring and continuing our slamming of doors

Watching our children, reflecting our roots

We clasp hands, one by one, as we rally the troops

Celebrating the births, grieving the beloved and gone

Most emotional, the tallest, the baldest - that's John

So it's artist today, and Mommy it's true

Yesterday's sissy, and now Honey, too

Sher to my friends, that's nothing new

I'll glance in the mirror and think "who are you?"

Don't box me in!  Labels are impossible

Don't even try - unless it's removable!

Twisting and turning, changing each day,

I'm not confused, I like it that way!