I come from an extended family,

oldest of two to my mother,

          of three to my father,

          of thirteen to my grandmother.

I came into an inherited babysitting job,

watching my brother while work absorbed our parents’ lives,

distracting my four cousins late into the night when my uncle is away,

cleaning up after my family at gatherings like the perfect grandchild I was taught to be.

I come from two people with troubled lives,

suffering from the likes of parents,

the likes of alcohol,

the likes of mental illness.

I came from the backyard of a growing neighborhood,

occasionally trespassing on the neighbors’ property,

causing chaos while roaming with my friends,

forever running from the impact of our actions.

I come from an upbringing of disillusion,

drifting away from trusting an authority,

         from obeying gender roles,

         from loving blindly.

I came to where I am with a struggle,

abandoning what I knew in the seventh grade,

becoming a stranger to a new home,

left behind in the past with no chance of catching up.

I come from trying to be the best,

doing everything I can to keep up with friends and family,

            to keep up with school,
to keep up with life.

I came from the men’s section in stores,

refusing to wear feminine clothing,

fighting to be who I actually am,

not what society tells me to be.

I come from a past and present of confusion,

unsure of who I am,

of who I love,

of who I will become.