“I’m mixed.”A pause,just a second,barely noticeable,before the gears begin to turn.The pinched brow,the searching gaze,the uncertain tiltof the head,slowly recede in relief.

My new friend now has an answerand a boxto 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 outsideI am too lightto be dark andI am too darkto be light.My hair is not too straightnor too curly.I am right in the middle.A pleasant blendof both sides of my family.It’s a box,but it’s a safe, comfortable box.I am a symbolof unity,of harmony,of How Far We Have Come.The type of kid they now use in ads to sell overpriced leisure wearand complacency.

But insidethese two sides of me come togethernot in peace,not in harmony,but in tensionand 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 isterrifying,disruptive, and yetproductive,for it createsforce,light,energy, and, eventually,change.

I have come to embracethis storm inside of meand all of the thunder and wind and rainand lifeit promises.