by this name you call me -

She asks, Are you Amish?

It’s funny this.

My mother told me I was ‘plain.’

In Amish terms though, this entirely different meaning – a compliment even.

“You’re looking very plain today” – the highest of all.

My mother – “Settle for what you get.. it is the best you can do”

All my life I believe. Likely still do.

Yes, a social façade makes do.

Scratch deeper, it rings true.

But Amish. Could be true.

I am blonde, bobbed, and scrubbed.

Sun-freckled and pale, eyes green as marbles.

I look positively corn-fed – an extra on the set of Witness.

Not a star no. Just a farm hand at a barn-raising.

A teenager in a sheer bonnet - Innocent, pure.

It’s a compliment this. I take it as such.

It’s the shoes, she says: Ah, the black and the blue.

My shoes, t-strapped, small buckle,

my stockings navy blue – to say nothing of my grey, pleat flannel skirt.

Yes, I could indeed be Amish, “plain” and mother, yes, “plain.”

I am neither of these things.

They tell me I am a WASP.

My blood clear as gin – a hint of watercress, perhaps.

And my father? A Jew.

I was confirmed Anglican –

An acolyte too. Episcopal to the last and true.

A real believer in it all, except the self, of course.

I am your WASP, I am your Jew. I am your Amish.

I am your Plain Princess. I am your Doormat.

I am you Wife. I am your Poet. I am your Writer.

I am the Other, the Odd Eccentric. I am the Lover.

I am the Whore. I am the Bitch. I am the Scapegoat.

You want to know the truth? I am the Journalist –

I document it all. I keep note of all…

I remember everything. Record and keep every note.

I will, do remember each of you.

I give you no apology, you have no excuse.