Before I joined Identity House, about a year ago, I could not even imagine the possibility that I would ever publish this poem. Just thinking about it filled me with anxiety. Thank you Identity House, for helping me become proud of who I am and allowing me to help others. —Abby
The Shawl
Passed by my mother
Ignored, crumpled into a closet
How it hugs her shoulders
Protects her from cold’s disembodied embrace
Its rough perfume invades my nostrils
The softness of the old wool against my skin
Her arms around me
I could almost hear the knitting needle’s
soft click as they touch
The barely audible counting of stitches
Me at her feet
My brother impatient
in her belly
They used the shawl to tease me;
It was the only thing
that could keep your fingers
out of your mouth
when you started school
we had to hide the damn thing
to keep you apart
you cried for almost two days
We would visit Toby’s Yarn Shop
almost every day
me always falling behind
Often, I would stop
after school
their willing child model
charmed into staying
hot chocolate, and a cookie or two
They seat me in one of the booths that lined the store
I finished and was about to leave
When one of my mother’s friends said
Wait, I want to try this on you
A winter hat for her daughter
me in front of the mirror
pink and white
placed upon my head
She pinches my cheeks
What a face
And then she pulled the flaps over my ears
I turned to face her
She took my head in her hands
Looked into my eyes, and smiled
You’re too beautiful to be a boy
In the background, a stranger
Don’t say something like that to a little boy
Boys are not beautiful too?
What does she mean?
I loved the Yarn Shop.
walk around— wear this try that,
Prancing and dancing
thrilled
My brother was born in a snowstorm
I was shipped off to my Aunt and Uncle
Canarsie Quonset Huts
Home to servicemen
Returned from the war
On Christmas Eve, my uncle asked
what would you do if you could do anything
I would like to be able to knit like mommy
Knitting is for girls
But uncle you can make beautiful things
Beautiful is not for boys
What am I?
I learned to hide
when I was five