Step 1: Initial Creases

The world sees an eight-year-old 

folding a paper crane. 

My thumb glides over the thin sheet, 

creating a distinct crease. 

These creases, these steps—

I have control.

A source of comfort

within the paper. 

My legs dangle, 

they hover, 

over the edge of the pastel blue seats. 

I wait for the diagnosis. 

Tic. 

My neck jolts. 

A man looks up. 

Tic. 

My eye twitches. 

The girl beside me inches away. 

Faint fluorescent lights,

they cast angular shadows on my lap. 

I stare at the geometric structure I have produced, unsatisfied.  

The creators of this crane, they promised elegance— 

elegance from this origami. 

Yet the flat wings, 

crinkled, unsmooth… they twitch. 

That is all I can see. 

My name echoes throughout the waiting room—

the neurologist has called me. 

Origami intertwined between my fingers, 

I stand. 

Tourette’s Syndrome, 

he said. 

As if a bonus to the diagnosis, 

he smiles at my crane, 

grateful for the distraction to my tics. 

Tic. 

I latch onto the crane, 

walking out of his room. 

The crane is all I can control. 

Step 2: Developing the Crane

My parents see a 15-year-old 

folding a paper crane. 

I look out the window of New York City— 

where dreams are made of, they say. 

The reverberation of parade music 

blasting at full volume,

sending rhymnic waves throughout the concrete jungle. 

Yet I barely feel the rhythm

on the carpeted floors of this hotel room. 

So I fold another crease.

Cheers in Times Square are muffled 

before it reaches my ears. 

It is blocked out by this glass panel—  

bulletproof. 

So I fold another crease. 

Vibrancy encompasses the city, 

swirls of pastel tugging at my identity. 

I am stuck in this room, 

confined by grey walls. 

I sit. 

I watch. 

I wait. 

And I fold.

The rainbow flags wave in the wind—

colors seeking acceptance.

Red for life— 

an unsung community, 

a rusted Stonewall Inn sign. 

Orange for healing— 

bandaid over my friends’ judgment.

Yellow for the sun—

illuminating hate crimes. 

Green for nature—

I am normal.

Indigo for harmony—

united to stop conversion therapy.

Violet for the soul— 

because love wins. 

Confetti floats in the wind, 

and I see faces—

faces of strangers who are family.

Graphic eyeliner traces a woman’s eyelids, 

tattoos enclose a man’s arms 

like sleeves of individuality waiting to be judged. 

The frets on a guitar touched by fingers, 

of pride, 

of a culture screaming against assumptions. 

The parade feels

like a distant relative

I want to get in touch with. 

But I stand here, 

folding a paper crane. 

Each crease is predictable, 

a sequence of steps I conform to. 

What if I add a different crease? 

Step 3: An Extension

My classmates see a 17-year-old, 

Folding a paper crane. 

I am in calculus. 

Cross sections, 

rotation around an axis—

I calculate the volume of the origami. 

My fingers tingle

with the familiarity of the paper folding steps. 

But the rigid structure—

it irritates me.

I leave it on my desk 

to generate ideas on the whiteboard. 

The marker squeaks a new beginning, 

equations marking growth. 

I unfold the crane 

and see the crease marks on the flat paper— 

remnants and imprints of what I once folded. 

A crease for comfort and reliance—

the bold diagonal. 

A crease for identity doubts—

a faint horizontal. 

A crease for tics—

barely visible. 

They will always be there, 

but here is a new canvas. 

That same sheet 

can make infinite structures. 

And the world sees a 17-year-old, 

folding paper.