Two Stems

Two stems; one blossom.

Like all pretty ones,

it's no good for you.

Don't get curious...

one cat will kill another.

Red

Waves crashing through my body again.

I dream of kitty cats with green eyes, 

black fur and sharp claws.

I run and they catch me...

Red when I wake up.

3 am is the perfect hour

to wash away that original sin.

I stand beneath the shower head

looking up like there's help to be found.

Woman, get your life together,

you should be used to this by now,

Been years of flips

and lost ones.

I lay down dizzy from the racing thoughts,

sad from the memories they carry,

questioning yester years like they matter.

"Ester and Gester" squeezing every ounce of

sentiment from me.

"Are you sorry now?" they ask.

And even though I don't answer,

they know.

I pop the pills and pray

angry prayers,

curl up, contort, and cry

without my consent.

all this...every 26...

Jesus Christ: Single-Serving Friend

I'm four days away from my 33rd birthday, and I just can't seem to stop thinking about Jesus. (Yep...I said it.) Jesus! The figure I was introduced to at about four years old. The light of the World. The WORD made flesh. The Son of God who hung on the crucifix at the front of the church in my small, parochial K-8 school. The silky-haired, pale face who hung on the wall of my great grandma's bedroom with the exposed, thorn-wrapped heart. The guy who scared me when I had a dream I saw that exposed heart in a puppy beside my bed (true story). The rebel religion-starter. The Savior who died for me. The Messiah from heaven whose suicide mission ended during his 33rd year (or at least that's the age most agreed he died).

Jesus had an eventful last year of life -  a year that made his life. Who he was before few cared about; who he was afterward started a movement. That's what really fuels my faith. As a human, his accomplishments were simply amazing, and I don't mean the miracles. While raising stinking Lazarus from the dead impressed the everyday witness, I have always known that's what Jesus was supposed to do. I mean, in Catholic school, Jesus Christ was a real superstar. He might as well have been a magician. Loaves and fishes. Water into wine. Life of the party. Catholic school didn't really focus on that other Jesus, though. The one that flipped tables in the temple. The one who sat with society's wretched BY CHOICE. The charismatic soul with no job, 12 followers (who weren't exactly pillars of the community), an affinity for women, a problem with hierarchies, and no incredibly substantial relationship with anyone but God (who just happened to be...Himself...). That's the Jesus that has always fascinated me. The one who understood a lifestyle littered with single-serving friends...and didn't mind.

Fight Club gave me the term, "single-serving friend" (alas I cannot take credit for its genius), but it applies so well to the examined life, especially if one believes in God. You learn early in life where or if you fit at all. Contexts change; the questions don't. Do I fit? Am I supposed to? What happens  and what do I do when/if I don't? With all the church-going folk I have always found myself around, they never had anything to offer but common sayings that one would find in Christian fortune cookies (if they existed). "Find yourself a good church." "Pray about it." "Be thankful/it coulda been the other way." "Be happy you woke up this morning." What happens when that doesn't work, though. What happens when you don't fit this paradigm?

About a month ago, I wrote a poem after sitting across the table from an empty chair at my parents' anniversary dinner (a fifth wheel, now that my brother is in love again). At that moment, I was post-thaw  after having endured a long deep-freeze of trying to deny that I even wanted companionship. And I had just figured out I had walked into yet another "it-just-ain't-meant-to-be" situation with another guy who wouldn't care if I walked away and would never hurt for companionship. The next day, I didn't want to get out of bed...didn't know what to do or how to make it better.

Well...WWJD?  Flip tables. Tell the hard truth. Here goes...

I can count my friends on one hand (maybe three fingers, actually...) I have a great heart, but there's a piece missing. Part of the missing piece is where the writer me belongs. I'm supposed to be much more to me than this. The other part is all the love I have to give to a man I want to love, for no other reason than I love him. (I've never said that to anyone before.) I'm passionate about art and living life. I want to live mine, but I often volunteer it to make others happy. (I fuckin hate that I do that.) Because I do it, I have made a lot of single-serving friends who hang around too long because they are more enamored with my energy than they are interested in being the person on the other end of the tough questions. (I really fuckin hate that I do that too.) I curse a lot because I'm angry that I don't make difference in the world. I just make more people depend on me. I have done many great things, most of them professional. Personally, I feel like a failure - nothing but fleeting moments of butterflies. Love only rents here; it's only the name on lease, actually. Who knows who is actually occupying that space. My sarcasm is strong. It's the only real defense I have against the crafty, self-serving agents in this sick, sad world. When I'm at work I walk a tightrope between being an agent and being a defector; I understand why they need school, but I also understand why they don't like it. I'm not impatient; I'm just ready to live. That tends to happen when you've never fit, and your mother told you to wait until you were older, and you're older and still don't fit. Still don't have a dedicated group of friends. Still feel like you give way more than you get. Except now you're coasting on fumes...and people are calling you impatient like they know your story. *eye roll* I'm tired. I'm tired of waiting on my adventure. 

Truth. "The truth shall make you free." I think that's what worked for Jesus. I think He got tired of playing small. I think he got tired of seeing and never saying anything. I think He flipped that temple table because He wanted everyone to understand that He wasn't a joke or a novelty...or a magician. He felt like He had something to do. So He upset the status quo; challenged the establishment. Walked on water. Asked tough questions. I admire that courage to live the way He wanted - inspiring to some and blasphemous to others. I understand why He took his love and kept it moving. 

I'm still a bit weirded out about being 33 already, but I think I'm ready to live it out loud, like He did. I'm no one's savior, of course. But I'm not willing to give up on the chance that the greatest adventure might be just ahead. 

Wish me luck...

The Knew-ness

You knew before it shocked you it would happen

because you knew yourself, 

even if he didn't,

and he knew himself,

even if you didn't,

and though you both flirted with the idea

that either of you could be enough to complement the other,

you knew it would end in the light of day...

Knew neither of you would stay faithful to the idea...

Knew you were two not one...
and the new faded into knew.

God's Special Creatures

Favor looks good on you!

(Better than those snap backs I love you in or

that shirt and tie I bought.)

It drips from you...

the reward for being first.

No real expectations, 

so anything you do well

wows them.

Great by comparison.

Powerful by nature.

A life filthy with opportunities, 

God's special creature.

And here I'm thinking I'm SOMEBODY...

more like A BODY among many.

Round bottom girl in a sea of the same...

typical view for a looker like you,

run through the crowd grabbing

all you can hold,

letting bits and pieces slip through your fingers

(collateral damage in the war of want,

I suppose.)

But all is forgiven, special one,

you've been handed this world to explore,

not your fault we overpopulated your peace - 

Your world made complicated by us.

All we could ever hope to be 

is chosen.

                                  

Raw

Dialogue girl in a texting world...

I'm obsolete.

Too much work and effort,

too much me 

wrong time

for him

...but what about God...?

What about God?

...gave me my fleshy, open heart,

and with it I seek the unavailable,

uninterested,

uncompromising,

Not-readys...

I didn't mean to cause you undue stress...

Just wanted to walk across your mind

and leave footprints behind,

Deep ones that won't blow away,

so you can follow them

and find me...

But...

I forgot to ask if you were looking...

So...

Nothing more to do than to take my messy, fleshy heart

and cliche it

'cause you ain't comin' back

to re-see me.

(Cliche 1 - "It's his loss.")

Nothing special over here,

just something The Lord made...

at the wrong human time...

 

Six

My heart...around my neck

I guess it all just added up...

Two people talking four weeks,

mathematically, six makes sense.

Numerologically too...

Birthdays read the same - 

4+1+1 = 6

1+2+3+0 = 6

Meant to be? 

Who knows...

Looking for shit like this is what you do

when you want to believe it's not for nothing.

And, just maybe, you matter more than a knot in the pants...

he than a tickle below.

I kind of thought it might happen,

even desired the release of two, 

the decrease of two,

creating something new.

If only a memory.

Adding one more to the other five,

a fulfilling one...a fulfilling start...

(...too scared to say more. Move on...)

A new hand...

rubbing my back and below,

seemingly in admiration.

(That felt good.)

Five fingers on one breast,

working as a team.

Two arms holding him, four limbs intertwined,

I should have known we would six.

But I was still surprised when I heard the wrapper

crumple without another sound.

And then the math stopped...

No more logic,

Everything was open

for interpretation

No words, really.

Forward motion

(and backward)

until words weren't necessary.

Mirror Mirror

She wears her heart

on a chain

around her neck.

That's brave...

The leading lady in my life,

so I try to make her day

EVERYDAY.

She says, "No man ever gave me that.

Never smiled at me in the morning, 

Like you do."

I tell her, "Drowning men looking for rowboats 

don't think yachts will be sent their way.

So they wait for the rowboats, 

even when a yacht is in view.

That's all they expect."

She says, "Girl...where do you get this stuff?"

I say, "You inspire me. I want to give to you 

what you give to others."

That's the truth...

our morning bathroom ritual.

She stares back at me,

we re-connect,

become one to face the world.

The "S"ituation

(Sometimes...) we

substitute one poison for another;

call it "sacrifice."

Swap one set of behaviors for another

(completely);

call it a "shift."

Sabotage and sink ourselves

(with the best intentions);

call it "self-preservation."

Not stupid.

simply scattered,

scrambling for speedy solutions,

scared of stagnation.

Ironically, still stuck...

(Shit...)

So sad when that happens.

Sack the possibilities of change,

snuggle with the security of doubt,

sleep with the fear,

so sure it's better than the bedfellow we don't know.

Send away the sincere sentiment of another,

save the effort for the same shit that hurt us.

Slide the shiny sought-after on the safe bet;

serve the rest "sorries."

(Sigh...)

Same stories time and again.

Somehow, we convince ourselves

we're so special, 

significant even,

for our suffering.

We long to be survivors

and shed tears for some

superficial stand.
Such martyrs we are...
falling on our samurai swords.
Something to live for, I guess...

Silver linings soon to come, we hope...
(Smile...)

something at the end of the rainbow
at the end of the storm,
at the end of it all,
to compensate for all the
sacrifices...
(that were really only substitutions.)

Midnight Maurading

My "dancing" shoes...

The undeniable sound of "Mystic Brew" begins,

Not J. Cole's sample,

but my greatest love for 20 years.

Honey check it out, 

you got me mesmerized...

And the DJ remembers,

asks the crowd, "Do you remember where you were

20 years ago, when this album dropped?"

I do...eighth grade.

I let myself return, and gave in
to the feeling I had when that song grabbed me

and told me I was that girl.

Wit your black hair 

and your fat ass thighs...

Did my two-step and was feelin' good,

til I remembered Dwele saying, 

"It takes two to tango." 

Hmmm...

And, evidently, only one to two-step.

Street poetry is my every day,

but you I gotta stop when you drop my way...

Still in the music with my eyes closed,

I went back a few hours

and remembered my parents' anniversary dinner.

I sat across from an empty chair another year.

The fifth wheel...

If I was workin' at the club,

you would not pay...

...and three hours later I'm two-steppin' at Lounge of III,

full of Tribe, feelin' alone,

repeating all the words to a song I love at the top of my lungs

to the DJ's delight!

"We got a real Hip Hop fan in here..." (on the mic)

Stretch out your legs let me make you bawl,

drive you insane drive you up the wall. 

Staring at your dome piece, very strong,

Stronger than pride, stronger than Teflon.

Real Hip Hop fan...great,

Nobody's beating down the door for them.

Today they want chicks with anthems

(If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it...)

And good girls who act like bad bitches,

so they can turn them back into good girls

(...you act so different around me...).

So I go where the hip hop is loud,

and I can midnight maraud like it's new.

You can be my mama and I'll be your boy...

If I had been alone, I may have shed a tear

for all the people walking by, looking in, 

ignoring the native tongues,

but I kept up appearances,

forced myself to stay in the moment

and thought back to black and white.

A busy New York street,

a cab, a girl dressed for winter.

Q-tip wasn't even looking for her when he saw her.

Chemistry, all the same...

Since when do we have to be lookin' 

for all we want and need to find it?

Shorty let my tell you 'bout my only vice,

it has to do wit lots a lovin',

and it ain't nothin' nice.

Q-tip let her pass.

Probably chalked it up to coincidence,

or bad timing...or an "abstract" video,

...or the wrong song...

She was a flake like corn

and I was born

not to understand 

by letting her pass

I proved to be a better man...

SHE KEEPS ON PASSIN' MEEEEEE BY!

Butterflies in Anacostia

Didn't know hands could do that...
Lightly walk up and down an arm
and cause explosions...elsewhere
everywhere...
anxious to see where hands will land,
if kisses will be good and what will...grow...


He surprised me,
laid on my lap and let me rub his head,
even that made my stomach flutter.

He's not playing fair...
He's not playing...
looking at me between long blinks,
watching the the ice melt,
only one of us wet,
the other one enjoying the breeze of Monarch wings,
teasing the situation with dissecting eyes.

If I had said all I wanted, 
he wouldn't have believed me,
Anything in that moment would have been cliche,
blamed on the amorous feeling brought on by touch.
So I stayed in that moment with him...

And wondered if he really saw what there is to see in me.

Selfies

I want to look like this to him..

retouched, but untouched,

perfect nose, subtle smile,

hair, neatly all over the place,

not noticing him memorizing me...

I want him to mentally crop and filter a stupid selfie I sent to him 

(because he was on my mind)

And think of me during the night shift,

perfectly "noir" and natural (smile)

And I want to look at him like this...

sleepy-eyed and tired after a long day,

right before I lay my head on his chest 

and he makes a corny joke about my little nose.

I want to giggle my way to sleep.

Happy.

Even for a moment...

I want to believe in it again.

...had a great fall!

“Are you the one who is supposed to put me back together when the pieces are all over the place…? All the king’s horses and all the king’s men?”

It was 3:00 a.m. She skipped the hello; he didn’t notice.

“Come over. Bring your pieces,” he responded. Their back-and-forth was back again.

She held the phone, crying. 

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said. Same line as always. Not even a tone change.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know, but you don’t have to be ‘fine’ alone.”

“That’s just it. I do…”

The finally-finished feeling hung heavy between them.

Bruce vs. The Board of Education

Dear New CEO of Prince George's County Public Schools,

Greetings and congratulations on your appointment! I look forward to your work to lead our students into true college and career readiness in the age of common core. I began my career in P.G. County 11 years ago and saw quite a few of you come through and leave no significant mark on the hearts of the children who walked halls, sat in classes, and let doors close behind them with no plan after four years. I hope you're ready! Not that the opinion of a teacher matters to you, but I thinks it's time for true change; MSDE isn't giving us much of a choice in the matter anyway, so let me cut to the chase. I would like to put something else on your mind to help prepare our students for life in the real world, while making school relevant.

I understand you're familiar with the area, so I'm sure you've noticed  there are a few Black people in P.G. County (...just a few...). In light of the outcome of the Trayvon Martin murder case, I think we should include a class to prepare our young, Black men and women to defend their lives. I'm don't mean physically; I mean using communication, explaining their social existence, and preparing them for the perception that they will be subjected to, whether in a hoodie or cap and gown. Because let's face it, history keeps repeating itself, so perhaps our education system should be honest and admit that common core is only the tip of the iceberg for preparing our students for what they really need. They need to be prepared to explain their experience in their own skin and that they are NOT what the media and our history has spoon-fed Americans (Black, White, and others) for centuries.

I realize you may be feeling a little uncomfortable right now. If possible, I ask that you endure it for the sake of the children and residents of P.G. County (and Baltimore and D.C., for that matter, because your jurisdiction is located between these two major cities, so P.G. County gets students from them...and they are often Black). I am Black, Mr. CEO; I'm sure you probably figured that out by now. I've been places that people told me wasn't for me because I am. I assure you, it has been an uncomfortable existence at times, so please indulge me. After hearing the verdict, I cried for my kids, many of whom fit the profile of Trayvon Martin and Rachel Jeantel - young, Black, affected by media, distracted by technology, and coping with the history of racism in this country by evolving terms like "nigger" (nigga) and "cracker" (cracker). I get that, and I welcome the opportunity to help them become more informed and assist them in expressing themselves and their ideas about the state of the world - where it is, where it has been, and where it is going - effectively. It is my privilege to do this; only a select few are granted the gift of insight into young minds because only a few are willing to take the pulse of the best and worst of our country by asking those honest enough to answer questions. The least I could do for them is return the honesty.

Contrary to popular belief, this isn't post racial America. I'm not even sure what that term means. When we reside in a country stolen from one race of people already here and built on the backs of those stolen from another continent, shipped here like cargo, mentally manipulated to internalize inferiority, made to work for free under threats of hangings and beatings, and dehumanized and regarded as chattel, I'm not sure if race relations will ever be completely "square." (There I go being honest again, but I digress...) I am prepared to offer my services on Saturdays for free to start the dialogue and the healing of centuries of mental hurt.

I was motivated to write this letter to you because I believe in progress, Mr. CEO. I was an "urban" youth. I live among "urban" youth. I understand the cycle and fear that comes with the territory, but I was not able to understand the effects of that word and its connotation until I left my community seeking the knowledge that  the world outside my comfort zone could offer me. If there was someone who had experienced my life (or something similar), left the situation, and returned to tell me how to navigate the intricacies of embracing my experience and it integrating it with what I was learning, I would have jumped at the chance. I would have been IMMEDIATELY ready for the world after leaving high school. I would like to pay the favor forward by giving back! The ruling on behalf of justice for Trayvon Martin affords the opportunity to talk to our kids about who they think they are versus who others might think they are (and these "others" may or may not have a face that looks just like theirs, a stark truth about which they should be informed).

One only has to look at Rachel Jeantel to see this truth. Her testimony was criticized by many people who look like her because they felt embarrassed by her, even though she had a valuable vantage point from which to testify. She was not an eloquent speaker. Many people are not, but many are not made to testify in front of the nation about an emotionally wrenching case in which they were on the phone the night their friend was killed. To add insult to injury, a juror, who didn't want to be identified, admitted to reporter Anderson Cooper that she felt that Rachel Jeantel "felt inadequate because of her education and communication skills" and that the juror "just felt sorry for her." These words speak volumes. What speaks loudest is that Rachel was evaluated as "not credible" because she was more honest than eloquent, which in the juror's eyes was a reflection of "the type of life that they [her word] live and how they [her word] are living in the environment they [her word] are living." If you don't believe she actually said this, Google it. The way she intends the word "they" is debatable, but what isn't is that she clearly didn't find Rachel Jeantel relate-able.

Mr. CEO, I can help our students articulate the complexities of their opinions and their experience. I can help offer them an outlet for their emotions and encourage them to construct solid arguments based on evidence, history, and thorough analysis. I can help them heal the wounds of prior education failures and the holistic education disparities of our country. I can help them constructively deal with the anger that smolders and makes them reject the possibilities in their personalities. I can help them be one form of true justice for Trayvon Martin - successful, confident, thriving adults who can stand their ground by enlightening those foolish enough to challenge their aptitude for greatness.

Please give it some thought or pass it along to whomever will give it serious consideration. We are losing our children. We have a responsibility to scale this mountain of a mess for our them. If I could, I would protect them from being murdered by the hands of the ignorant. What I can do is give them one form of protection  - I can help strengthen their minds to deal with all the troubling "isms" that murder them everyday.

If you need to reach me, don't worry. This won't be my last letter and people in your school system know just where I am.

Sincerely and optimistically,


T. Bruce

The "F" Phase

I had been bothered for a day and some change. Then on Tuesday, I went to Best Buy...

I picked up my purchase, headed to checkout, and there behind the counter to ring me up was one of the smartest students I'd taught in 10 years. When he saw me, he looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Oh my God! Ms Bruce is that you?"

I smiled. Hugged him. Asked about his life. 

Things weren't going as well for him as I had hoped. So we talked, and I was me, passion and all. Aggressive and unapologetic. Helpful. Understanding...his teacher again. And he was grateful. He paid me one of the best compliments I have received from a student. 

"I didn't realize how smart I was until your class..."

This is what I do well. I help students realize their muchness. 

I lost about 85% of my muchness a few years ago. Many people watched; not many seemed to care, and that's fine. I'm a heavy lift when I'm not collapsing, so me - falling down - had to be a spectator sport. Recently, I have been feeling the falling again, and though I know that, as an adult, no one has to care, or help, or even notice, I kind of wish someone would. Like I notice it in others.

Eric Roberson said, "If they can't hear you over your music, they'll never hear your song." I dig the metaphor.  But I wonder just how many people are listening to anyone's song, really. Who listens for lyrics any more? Or have I just been singing to the wrong crowd?

I must admit, I have been afraid to even confront that question because the answer demands action. It was easier for me to admit that I don't fit the crowd. In many ways, it's a compliment to stand out. The difficult step is finding a crowd that fits and feeds me, so the London bridge inside can be preserved. I believe I'm done being a teacher, in the traditional sense (one crowd down). And I've never been one to dream of reproduction and domesticity by 35 (another crowd bypassed). I'm actually not sure what I want right now, a huge problem since I will be unemployed after five more days of work. The scary part about that is that I'm not scared enough. It's 3 am, and I'm spilling out randomness on my iPad like I don't have work in four hours because I hate my job and am tired of feeling this way.

And I'm sadder than I have been in months right now...and all I can do to keep the tears away is to think back to the concert I went to almost a month ago and remember how good and alive I felt to be listening to someone who took a chance at singing his song and became the him I will pay to listen to every time he comes to town.

I hope to be there soon...out of the "F" phase...standing strong.

(Below: Eric Roberson doing his thing. May 25, 2013)

Haddock and Sweet Potato Fries

My Ketchup did this all on its own...

Does this mean anything really is possible?

Punctuation Rules (Part 1) - The Way We Choose to Live....

How one punctuates a group of words is telling. We punctuate sentences with what we know about reading, writing, and thinking. In a similar way, we punctuate our lives with decisions and live with the results thereof. "The Way We Choose to Live."

Each "slice of life" is titled with a punctuation mark, but the punctuation mark is pronounced in the subtitle beneath. The subtitles are the ideas the marks represent to me, either in form or feeling.

(  ) 

(pronounced "Embrace")

It amazes me how easily she slides into my hands in the middle of the night...like she knows exactly when I'm wondering where she is. And my hand touches my sex...and she's there, where she's always been. Held in my hands, between my pride and my shame.

And without opening my eyes, I slide her up...down...stop. Up...down...up...down. Stop. Up. Down. Up. Down. Soon the directions blur together. Never mattered anyway. She can do whatever she wants to me then. I'm clay in her hands.

And she ends up a mess in mine...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

(pronounced "End")

When it begins, I can't help feeling finished. I suddenly remember my age. Ponder my marital and parental status. I'm an emotional little girl on the inside; an undeniable woman on the outside. There is no lady in sight.

I remember Adam. Wonder if he doesn't love me because of this...if he feels more sinful because my body is out of order but looks operational and enticing. I want to cry, but the Eve in me is strong...and knows the truth.

So I sleep instead, contorting my body throughout the night to relax the pain I'm too exhausted to address. My mind flashes scenes of life many moons ago and tries to predict many moons ahead. When I wake up, I'm still in the middle of my own mess. I pull myself up and attempt to wash it all away. It only works temporarily before the flood returns, the pain crashing through me like tidal waves, yielding only temporarily to pharmaceuticals.

When it goes, I am relieved. I eat and sleep better. My purse is lighter and often smaller. Eve has disappeared, I'm left to deal with me, her distant ancestor, shaking strange fruit from our family tree. My caverns don't swell and flood. They are dark and empty. I am bit sad for it. Like it or not, it was the only reminder of my femininity, which dwells deep in my heart, but is held captive by my pride. And when it never returns, I know I will struggle with what it means to have an impact on the world if I have not made a significant dent in those prison bars.

It makes me eloquent when others deem it a curse. It is what could have been, thrown away so I can live healthily. It is the first half of an "us" that isn't likely...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture by Andraya Arrington

,

(pronounced "Pause")

You forget for a minute...

You forget why you're on the wrong side of the bed,

facing the window instead of the closet.

And then you hear breathing in the dark that isn't yours.

The bed dips beneath him.

For a second everything is as you imagine.
Quiet,
comfortable,
frozen in the moment of sheer happiness,
but the alarm breaks his sleep and your dream.

He rises,

no shine,

no kiss,

no idea that for a split second, he had it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-

(pronounced "Attached")

As I stand here in "virgin-white," I think I'm being gypped. Hyphenation with minimal representation. 

But...this, indeed, may be my last chance at that power move so important to that piece of the pie Willona sang about in the opening of "The Jeffersons." The agreement that makes me honest while swallowing my bloodline in a goulash of uncertain ancestry. I mean...he doesn't even really know his father, yet he clings to the surname as if there is any honor in blind bastard-naming. (And this pomp and circumstance is supposed to be making me honest.) 

I blame his mother as she sits there weeping in the front row because she's losing her son - the instant ally made so, in utero, as a then-lover turned his back her and their tummy bug. They outnumber me and my logic, using King James' version of God's proclamation to make me feel Eve all over again. (She was coerced too, ya know!) I'm not judging his family; I'm a bastard in my own right, last-named because my mother couldn't stand the alliteration of my first name and her last name together. Daddy's name was the only suitable option (even though he wasn't suitable for anything else). All that aside, it's still MY name...

In my Adam's pursuit to offer his name to this single gal, he offered it with a ring...and I accepted. Now I'm wondering if that was just bribery - a shiny bauble in exchange for a lifetime of memories as someone else. And though my birth certificate, diploma, and degrees boast my bloodline, every accomplishment henceforth will include his.

My successes are now ours, and his success is...me...

I do?