I am currently in an argument with myself
– Actually, all of my selves

Let me welcome you to the coffeeshop of my soul
where every person whom I have ever been sits
waiting, glaring, waiting for something to happen.

The twenty-four year old activist me
with her hoop earrings and newly inked
tattoos feels that churn in the pit of her
stomach, that hardened knot soured by
those who said her voice didn’t matter.
She wants to take that knot and fling it like a discus
in the face of whoever disagrees with her. Her
fists cross her arms over her chest, over a t-shirt
that reads, “If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention.”

While the thirty-seven year old spiritualist me
drinks green tea from a paper cup in her
uniform of yoga clothes and no makeup,
she doesn’t cry or scream or fight in public –
or even private – anymore since some years,
some losses took all of that out of her. She
inhales deep, eyes the bold letters on that t-shirt
and whispers, “Anger is a secondary emotion.
What you’re feeling is pain. All people suffer
whether they speak it or not.”

At the kids’ table, the five year old curious me
clutches her crayons and sips her OJ. She dives straight
for the glossy black and white photos in her kids’ biography
of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. On these pages, she sees the young
man speak. Beside her waits a picture book of Nelson Mandela,
his huge smile beaming from its cover, hands outstretched in a
human chain wrapped across the green earth beneath a rainbow sky.

This child is watched by the nineteen year old suspicious me who touches
the carved wooden necklace on her own chest, the one she bought
in Johannesburg after sitting with anti-Apartheid activists on a grassy lawn.
They called themselves the “Lost Generation,” trained for conflict
but unsure how to survive times of peace. In the coffeeshop, she scribbles
maniacally in her notebook. She searches the faces in the cafe,
wondering, who knows what I know now?

Breezing past her is the thirty-four year old professional artist me,
who throws down her leather bag, kicks off her heels, and thumb types,
“What's the point of saying ‘Fight The Man?’
when The Man funds every arts program, political conference,
and all the sandwiches too? How about ‘Invite the Man’?
Less sexy...but less disingenuous?” She gets a text from a friend:

"We knew how to protest under Bush, so we know how to protest
under Trump." She begins, "He went from reality star to
President; we went from protest to protest. Tweet me all you want.
Don't we need more tactics?" Pause. She decides not to send.

The twenty-four year old activist me sees her
and scoffs, “Sell-out.”

The thirty-four year old professional artist me
looks up from her phone, “Excuse me?”

The nineteen-year old suspicious me says,
“Neither of you are even scratching
the surface here at all.”

The thirty-seven year old spiritualist me says,
“Oh honey, if you only knew.”

The five year old curious me starts bawling.

The floodgates burst:

“You think you got all the answers don’t you?”

“People like you are the reason why the world’s so messed up.”

“You’re not even worth talking to.”

“What? You wanna live my life for me. Go right ahead!”

The doors of the coffeeshop fly open.

Here enters the forty-one year old self-conscious me I am today.
She’s gone back to wearing hoodies, sneakers, and hoop earrings,
because after a decade of trying,
she realizes there are no real adults on planet earth anyway,
no supreme wisdom passed down, no absolute truths revealed –

She holds up her hands, “Ladies, ladies please, everybody, take a breath.”

She smiles, hoping this will buy her time.

How does she say this?

That every morning she looks in the mirror and wonders
if all the people she’s been can be seen on her skin

– how many more people will she become?

The saying goes
if you’re conservative at 20, you have no heart;
if you’re liberal at 40, you have no head.

She doesn’t know about that,
but she feels her heart in her chest
and her head on her shoulders and she knows
she doesn’t want to be a divided soul

who doesn’t have a sense of disbelief
about their own life?

she’s seen

the dominatrix artist turned to christian mom
the homophobic father come out as gay
the gang leader transformed to social worker
the finance executive, now meditation guru
the radical who became conservative
the billionaire who became socialist
the rich to the poor, the poor to the rich
the healthy to the sick
the weak to the strong
the adversary to the friend
the stranger to the lover back to the stranger again

Who exactly is fighting with whom
and why?

When battles so viciously pursued end
And victory still cedes no answers

When relationships are deemed as futile
And disposable as a button’s click

When solutions are chosen because they’re fastest
When voices are heard because they’re loudest

how can we live – anonymous to our own hearts,
unable to shout the dead back to life,

we cannot batter the world into agreement with itself
fragmenting peace with shut eyes, ears, and souls

In the coffeeshop, the forty-one year old self-conscious me
feels her palms sweat. She looks at each self,
each self who is as real and relevant as she is today,

She clasps her hands together and says, “Okay.
Looks like we’ve got a lot of work to do.
Who wants to start?”