I travel the hollers of Calhoun County and the corn fields of Illinois, living in shallow cricks and truck stop diners.
I am from dumpling, pie, and bread makers.
I adore rolling hills, peach trees, sunsets, tire swings, and russet autumn leaves.
I am from poor farmers, war veterans, and single mothers making names for themselves despite that they were destined to be nameless.
I hear “Heavens to Murgatroyd, Batman!” and “The moon landing was faked,” and “Tonight on Murder, She Wrote…” whispered to me in my dreams.
I am the product of non-practicing Catholics, blitz-playing shysters, bankers, taxmen, nurses, and homemakers.
I fear fading memories of sidewalk chalk, a 1996 Lexus ES300, and E.T.
I am angered by movie star politicians, false promises, and $0.79 to the dollar.
I am concerned by a great public divide and a great private fear of the divide consuming the minds around me.
I am caught between unhappy Conservatives and even unhappier Liberals, perpetually stuck in the age of unpaid internships and the age of millennials, anchored only by Malala Yousafzai, Neil Gaiman, and Cage the Elephant.
A never-ending screenplay directing my every step—even those with which I may stumble.