Master Status

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The other day I was met with a question that I didn’t quite have an answer to.

In the middle of class, they said “Who are you?”

 

Now this sounds a bit strange, seeing as I had been

Attending this class since god knows when

But you see, in sociology, we were studying

This thing called “master status” defining

The way we define ourselves.

 

So the teacher asked everyone, receiving answers like

“student”  “sister” or “friend”. They were all so alike.

That it made me ponder, what I would be.

Because, there is a LOT to me.

 

To say I’m unique is just a nice way to call

me a freak, but with all that I am, I’m not much at all.

Friends say that I’m crazy

My mom calls me lazy

And when it comes to my dad, well, that’s kind of hazy.

 

The girls in the back of my geometry room may

pass notes with words like slut, whore, or gay.

But to let the words that fly from their

Tongues like knives block words like rare

Kind, and nice. That would be a crime

 

I’m not much of a jock or a nerd or a geek

because I don’t watch Star Trek and I don’t speak

elvish or cling-on or football too well

but I will be damned if I can’t tell

the difference between pumpernickel and rye

Or recite the first 63 digits of Pi

3.14159265358

I’ll spare you the rest, but trust me its great.

 

Maybe someone would choose to call me

A baker, a singer, a writer but he

Wouldn’t know the hours I spend

Talking with the girl who just needs a friend.

Because I know what its like to feel empty inside

To be looking for someone or somewhere to hide.

 

So maybe you’d say that I’m broken or bent

But with the scars on my arms, that won’t make a dent.

I’ve walked through the depths of hell and back

And come out alive. So no I won’t cut you slack

For letting the word slip “G-A-Y”

Because what you think is a joke, I know makes him cry.

 

What I see as strong you might see as “bitch”

But that lecture you got wasn’t a glitch.

I’m not the kind to just sit by

In a class where everything is going awry.

If the teacher won’t give you the sharp words you need

Then I sure as hell will. Because you need to read

 

Between the lines to find the answers in life

If you don’t I swear to you it cuts like a knife.

So label me as bossy, stuck up and rude

But lets be honest, because I’m not in the mood

To sugar coat dog shit and call it a cake

You’re not what you eat. You are what you make.

 

I make crying girls smile

And lift up their heads, and once in a while

I make pie for my neighbor to brighten his day

I make my sister laugh when I say

“What the devil is going on here” like Snape

I make people whole with kind words and tape.

 

But in the end what I said when the teacher asked

“Who are you” was much more meaningful, and much less vast.

After thought after thought it occurred suddenly

That you define you. You don’t define me.

I guess it was always going to be

That my “master status” is just being me

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