January Baby

I was born in January,

many don't remember because

often my birthday falls on the same day

as civil rights day,

and the oppression of rights is much more important

than the day that life was breathed into my body,

and I became a baby,

who grew with ideas and an imagination.

When I was four, 

I sang as a tonedeaf child,

spinning in circles as my dress 

swirled all around me.

I would never wear pants,

because "pants are for boys"

and refused to wear tights under my dresses.

I was a princess with a tiara on my mousy brown hair,

or so I thought. 

When I grew up,

I chose to take an acting class,

in a musty room with a teacher who was on a power ball commercial.

It was then that I knew,

that the velvet curtains,

and the wooden floors that creaked

when you stepped on certain spots,

and the makeup, costumes, wigs, props, 

and the weird people who could never fail to make me laugh, 

was where and who I needed to be with.

I grew and grew and grew

I chose to write in cursive,

never print,

I chose to adore the tales of the 'greats' 

that history told.

George Washington,

Joan of Arc,

Anne Frank, 

all were people I adored,

people I wished to be.

And so I became a person I 

never expected to be.

But perhaps it is for the best,

because I became me. 

This poem is about: 


Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression! 

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