I know normal like windowpanes now steam.
As in, my dreams will cleanse the world, and we
will one day breathe clean air. The reconning
of my inner storm will undeniably transform
myself and everyone that I touch.
This is my normal. But my identity
is a force that craves more and unfurls and curls
toward the light; my twelve-year-old eyes
could not find common ground around other forms
of normalcy. I am
the I-grew-up-poor-with-semi-absent-single-
mom-in-the-Midwest normal.
And
the I-have-seen-more-than-half-of-the-US-and-
more-and-I-talk-like-an-academic-when-I-need-to normal.
And
the I-have-savings-from-working-smart-and-
hard normal.
And
the I-am-a-POC-but mixed-and-thus-fragile-
but-my-skin-is-of-gilded-bronze-fire-retardant normal.
And
the my-mother-comes-from-white-money-from-
white-mom-from-her-white-parents-so-I-had-
mostly-new-clothes-as-a-child-normal.
And
the I-ate-books-with-my-eyes-because-I-felt-empty-
before-them-so-I-know-obsession-or-addiction-or-passion-
or-pain-like-a-brother normal.
I have lived many kinds of normal,
But the one most have not lives inside of me
Still, forever my secret treasure.
I found a radical community like me:
in boondocks full of burdock
and muck boots and hoop-houses.
I know that even though I also lived
some kinds of normal
that others understand, no hand can
fathom the soil I have touched
and how it has touched me forever.
I was fourteen when this place
became a normal to me,
and I added it happily to my collection
of identities as an abnormal person
with semi-comprehensible stories.
Do not despair, Prairie! I thought sarcastically.
People do not have to relate to you
to love you, to know you.
But the truth is much lonelier
than I could have foreseen.
I feel like a tourist in this urban life.
“What’s an eco-village?” everyone asks.
I don’t want to explain my life.
The truth is more complicated than
even my mouth can articulate.
Community. But not blood family.
But chosen. But unexpendable, but
Home and rustic and comfortably,
Consensually uncomfortable.
But I came from a normal
understandable to most. So why
Did this village feel so right?
How do I explain that Prairie Johnson
chose an abnormal normal?
What is normal about that?
How could I begin to convey that I willingly rejected
A culture designed to give me everything?
How do I say that it gave me an identity
as an unconventional child? But how else
would I have emerged from the tunnel of
mainstream America? Who else would I become
but the sum of skepticism and curiosity,
a torrential questioner of why?
My unschooled roots gave me tools
to unspool every truth, unravel every rule,
examine every pool of supposed normal.
I don't know where I fit in because
my understanding of myself is too expansive
to be contained in words. I am anything but
normal.
About the Creator
Prairie Johnson
If we are going to transform the world, we must begin with ourselves. I write what is inside of me so that you might find what is inside of you.
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