unbelonging
There’s a moment in life.
When you realise you are
your father’s daughter,
with no prospect of denying it.
That epiphany — finally conceding
your beliefs, your personality
your Core
comes from the genes you have.
Inherited.
The blood of the old man.
His and mine.
Anti-establishment genes.
Family. Groups. Clubs. Institutions.
Avoiding collections of people.
Group think is as group think does.
Him — a wayward son.
With a steely determination
to give them all the finger
and run far from every pack.
Be exactly who he wanted to be.
An ocean of distance from any crowd.
Dwelling on a fringe of civilised society.
The further the transient mooring, the better.
Me - a child testing boundaries.
For a while to fight against that DNA
in failed rebellions to participate.
Anchor with a team
after every move to start anew.
Three year cycles a singular rhythm.
Choirs, soccer, debating -
singing, kicking, arguing adeptly
but without passion.
Always feeling like I did not belong.
A lifetime of comfort
nurtured from detached distance.
A revelation that my intense feeling
of connectedness
ultimately hummed perfect pitch
and in tune with being alone.
Hiking to the edge of the earth
in the middle of nowhere
or sailing solo on the water.
My father always reminded me
of Chief Bromden in Cuckoo’s Nest.
A man out of step, hearing another drum.
When I walk now, I constantly choose
to skip out of rhythm
from the rest of the world.
Because to me, it is about escaping
that metaphorical hospital ward
that demands we acquiesce
and be (un)comfortably numb.
Submission to a group
is a form of serfdom.
I am my father’s daughter.
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