[Memories from my teenage years…
I hope people can relate it to their own unique identity struggles,
whatever your ethnicity, religion, or other unique characteristics.
We all have them, and they are all valuable.]
Playing hooky from Biology class,
I walked on broken sidewalks,
The weeds poking through the cracks.
I passed white picket fences
And Victorian houses.
The old immigrants lived there —
the Portuguese, the Italians.
I felt the oldness of it all,
The vines growing on creaky fences.
The sidewalks broken —
like my old life.
I confessed to the Biology teacher.
He forgave me; he was a kindly man.
It was a town of immigrants —
But not my own people — then.
(Didn’t realize I was an American!)
I spoke Hungarian —
not Italian, nor Portuguese, nor Gaelic —
No other Hungarians in town.
Lord, where do I belong?
You are my Rock and my Anchor;
You knew me all the time.
I’ll forever be an exile on earth —
But I’ll come home to You.
clarakatalin 