I am from pitch black nights dancing to Return to Pooh Corner,
from racing down our own sledding hill and
getting lost playing in wet, crunchy leaf piles.
I am from the love of Kevin and Julie,
from celebrating two holidays:
one Green Bay, one Rockford.
The house with the kitchen and bedrooms upstairs—
Why is that so weird?

I am from Church on Sundays,
from remembering please and
saying thank you.
I am from primary colored polos and faking sleep at nap time,
from the agony of no cable:
only PBS, only Disney movies.
The class with twenty kids total—
Why is that so weird?

I am from anything competitive,
from “Run fast. Turn left.” and
“The faster you run, the faster you’re done.”
I am from awful tan lines and the love-hate relationship,
from persisting past my limits:
despite my muscles screaming, despite my body telling me no.
The enjoyment of overflowing nerves—
Why is that so weird?

I am from summer nights with only the stars to guide me,
from jamming to my twenty-eight-hour playlist and
talking for hours, obsessing over the latest movies.
I am from relentlessness and selflessness,
from acting as a personal therapist for others:
no matter what time, no matter what problem.
The search for solace in turmoil—
Why is weird so bad?