September/October 2023

In the early hours of the day when the lonely owl is interrupted by the small twitters of rising birds and the first blush appears in the sky, I sit in my blue chair and listen to the world around me. The house is perfectly silent, but soon the cries of the little kids in the neighborhood will fade in. So I treasure this time. And this chair. My sister would much rather have a queen-sized bed to lounge spread-eagle on, but I remain in this little blue chair, my midpoint between sleep and life, between childhood and adulthood. My sister can’t fit in here anyway— she’s too big and too old. So it is only me who curls up in this space to watch the sun slowly advance across the floor to warm my feet. It is all mine. I’ve come to know this chair with all that’s been going on. Right now, I should be slouching against the rigid metal backing of the stools in the chilly geometry room. Yet here I am, observing my world in a little bubble of peace. From here, I can see the trees in the backyard looming over the garage they have entwined with time. And on the windowsill my lavender, remaining hostile inside its yet-to-bloom bulb. Next to me, a spindly side table trembles with the weight of my childhood. Or at least the books that were a part of it. My Father’s Dragon, Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse, and, obviously, Harry Potter, although you can’t really make poor Harry out through this film of dust. Eventually, when the remainder of my tea has gone cold, I do have to get myself up and truly begin my day. As things go back to normal, whatever that is, I know that my little blue chair will soon become a part of the background again. A spot to toss blankets and other miscellaneous items. This period of serenity will fade as the world returns. It will be as if I had been living underwater, and the sounds of life will trickle back as I rise to the surface.

“I’m mixed.” A pause, just a second, barely noticeable, before the gears begin to turn. The pinched brow, the searching gaze, the uncertain tilt of the head, slowly recede in relief. My new friend now has an answer and a box to put me in: “Oh, like café au lait!” “Well . . . sure . . . I guess.” A smile, a reassuring nod, and our conversation moves on. Yet all the while I’m thinking that inside, inside, I’m not like café au lait at all. No. I am a thunderstorm. On the outside I am too light to be dark and I am too dark to be light. My hair is not too straight nor too curly. I am right in the middle. A pleasant blend of both sides of my family. It’s a box, but it’s a safe, comfortable box. I am a symbol of unity, of harmony, of How Far We Have Come. The type of kid they now use in ads to sell overpriced leisure wear and complacency. But inside these two sides of me come together not in peace, not in harmony, but in tension and conflict. Like a thunderstorm. If half of me is hot and dry, the other half must be cold and humid. My disparate elements clash and contrast. They fight and repel. The collision is terrifying, disruptive, and yet productive, for it creates force, light, energy, and, eventually, change. I have come to embrace this storm inside of me and all of the thunder and wind and rain and life it promises.