Theme for American Literature II
Then Mrs. Stanton said:
You have read the poem by Langston Hughes
And now you will go home and write
A poem tonight
And let that poem be true about you
Let the poem be you.
I’m 17, and I’m still weird.
They still write me off as who they think I am: a bookworm, a teacher’s pet, some weird overachiever with weird friends.
Who knew it’d be so hard to make them see me as a person?
Oh well. My friends and I aren’t where they are anymore. You might say we’re ‘defying gravity.’
I guess I’m the only ‘me’ in my class.
At school, on my own, I make it a point to stand out. But somehow, I’m still forgettable.
At least the adults in this town always remember me. I make them laugh.
But even they don’t see me as me.
I feel fake.
Everyone places me in a neat little box, even my family and friends.
‘This is Lorra. She is…’
No, this is Lorra.
Away from all assumptions of who I am, I am
Me. Not them. Not you. Do you see me?
No one does.
I’m strange. I think strange things, say strange things and then I go and write them down. I’m ruled by my fear, held down by it. Fear of what, I don’t know. But I do what I can without having to face it most of the time.
I act, think, write, read, sing, dance, smile, laugh, love, and
I live.
At least, I try.
So where do I belong?
In the sky, or in the sea?
Who should I be?
Them, or me?
You have read the poem by Langston Hughes
And now you will go home and write
A poem tonight
And let that poem be true about you
Let the poem be you.
I’m 17, and I’m still weird.
They still write me off as who they think I am: a bookworm, a teacher’s pet, some weird overachiever with weird friends.
Who knew it’d be so hard to make them see me as a person?
Oh well. My friends and I aren’t where they are anymore. You might say we’re ‘defying gravity.’
I guess I’m the only ‘me’ in my class.
At school, on my own, I make it a point to stand out. But somehow, I’m still forgettable.
At least the adults in this town always remember me. I make them laugh.
But even they don’t see me as me.
I feel fake.
Everyone places me in a neat little box, even my family and friends.
‘This is Lorra. She is…’
No, this is Lorra.
Away from all assumptions of who I am, I am
Me. Not them. Not you. Do you see me?
No one does.
I’m strange. I think strange things, say strange things and then I go and write them down. I’m ruled by my fear, held down by it. Fear of what, I don’t know. But I do what I can without having to face it most of the time.
I act, think, write, read, sing, dance, smile, laugh, love, and
I live.
At least, I try.
So where do I belong?
In the sky, or in the sea?
Who should I be?
Them, or me?