Georgia is being an outcast. Being disconnected and not knowing why. Never being able to figure it out. Looking all over myself and not knowing what I did wrong. Did I sound wrong? Look wrong? Why am I on the outside?
Georgia is the first place where I was new, and never was able to pick where I belonged.
Georgia is being told where your place is.
Georgia is my name scrawled on the chalkboard in the locker room with the word "Dyke" as my definition. Is. A. Dyke. One of those green chalkboards with yellow chalk that never really erase. Coach Hatcher never had the decency to wash the board down with a wet rag. So I was a dyke for most of sophomore year.
Georgia is a broken collarbone, broken glass, brokenness.
Georgia is anonymous notes written to me, my family, my parents.
Georgia doesn't want our kind.
Georgia is a purgatory that burned away the last bits of my nonsense and made me set my face like flint and push through each day until that day my parents announced we were moving to Texas.
Georgia still makes my fists ball up, pushing my fingernails into the flesh of my palms with anger at the indecency of it all, the unfairness, the wreckage and shards of glass all around me.
Georgia is making me want to cry. I'm glad you got out.
ReplyDeleteYou are an incredible writer.
ReplyDeleteWow. And what Indigo said. Do you have one of these for every state? It feels like you should make them into a book. And/or initiate some sort of open access mega-blog where everyone can join in and write what their state is to them.
ReplyDeleteI do...I'll post the links.
DeleteDamned Georgia. Georgia is my first encounter with fire ants. Ouch.
ReplyDelete