Post election, one thing’s become obvious: “we,” whoever “we” are, here in America, have struggled with identity.
Who are we?
Is THIS who we are?
We are exactly THIS.
I’m not like that!
THAT’s me!
That’s NOT me!
This isn’t who we are.
This isn’t who I thought we were.
This is us.
This is U.S.
There’s no way we’re like that.
We have to become even more that.
Who am I?
Who are you?
I’m different.
I’m no different.
I’m exactly like him and proud of it.
I’m everything he’s not.
and on and on and….
I don’t think we have good answers for these questions right now. To stay a “we,” we need answers.
Call Me By My True Names
(A poem by Thich Nhat Hanh)
Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow—
even today I am still arriving.
Look deeply: every second I am arriving
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that is alive.
I am a mayfly metamorphosing
on the surface of the river.
And I am the bird
that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.
I am a frog swimming happily
in the clear water of a pond.
And I am the grass-snake
that silently feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.
I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am also the pirate,
my heart not yet capable
of seeing and loving.
I am a member of the politburo,
with plenty of power in my hands.
And I am the man who has to pay
his “debt of blood” to my people
dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.
My joy is like Spring, so warm
it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.
My pain is like a river of tears,
so vast it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up
and the door of my heart
could be left open,
the door of compassion.
To stay a “we,” we need answers that recognizes the me in you and the you in me. Right now, we see too many as “other.” And “other,” by definition, isn’t included in a “we.”
Look, regardless of who we pretend to be or not, we are. And I am a part of we (full disclosure: so are you).
Just, when you see me, respect this one and only wish of mine: call me by my true names.
How shall I call you?
~ k
Love this poem Kert, thank you for sharing it. 🌻
Such a beautiful & relevant poem , thank you 🙏