But I Live

By Chania Price

I live for the moment—
Big or small, I live.
I am healthy.
I am tall.
I am fit.
And skinny.
Almost too skinny—
To some.
But still,
I live.

I have energy.
A whole classroom would call me—
Energetic.
Goofy.
Nice.
Funny.
Smart.
Weird.
Weird?

I hate that word.
Genuinely.
It _triggers_ something deep.
Something I didn’t know existed
Until you dropped a five-letter label
That whispered:
“You’re not like the rest... and not in a good way.”
But I live.

I like a lot of things.
I’m good at a lot, too.
I don’t fit just one box.
I’m introvertly-extroverted.
Extrovertly-introverted.
Not a nerd—but I’m smart.
Not a jock—but I play.
Not a cool kid—but I shine in a crowd.

I’m different.
So different
That when it’s time to ask for help—
I get overlooked.
When I need someone—
I don’t know who’s real.
Who wants _me_—
Not the mask,
But _me_.
Still,
I live.

I live in a world
Where “normal” means
Same thoughts.
Same clothes.
Same looks.
Same silence.
God forbid you challenge their beliefs—
Their egos are too fragile.
Too fragile to listen.
To debate.
To admit
That where we grow,
What we see,
How we hurt—
Shapes how we think.
But I believe our differences—
Every quirk,
Every twist,
Every truth—
Is what makes us
Beautiful.
So I live.

I’m light-skinned.
Still Black.
Mom from St. Louis.
Dad from Springfield.
They’re darker.
My brother too.
I grew up in White Settlement.
Went to charter school.
Had white friends.
Heard pop music on daycare rides—
The kind they now call “White girl music.”
Whatever _that_ means.
I learned those lyrics faster
Than the math flashcards Mom got me.
And I live.

I’m Black.
Played on Black teams.
Saw cousins in the summer.
Listened to my parents laugh
With Black friends.
Still—
I don’t talk like them.
I speak clearly.
Use full sentences.
“Whitewashed.”
“A code switcher.”
“Not like us.”
But I live.

I hide my pain well.
If you’ve read this far—
Maybe you feel it too.
I smile.
I shine.
I act confident.
I bottle up your words
And bury them
Under charm, jokes, and good vibes.
But underneath—
I wonder:
What am I ready for?
“Sub me in, Coach”—
But am I ready
To be thrown back
Into the trenches?

This world picks and chooses.
Where I can’t call you fat,
But you can call me skinny.
Where I’m “too white,”
But you want mixed babies
That look just like me.
Where you say I’m weird—
But crave friends
Who are different.
Where “different” is dangerous.
Where good grammar
Is suspicious.
Where good hair
Is a crime.
Where talent
Is showing off.
Where passion
Is called “pick me.”

But I’m none of that.
I’m not what you think.
Not what you want.
Not what you expect.

I’m far from perfect.
Far from “normal.”

The furthest from what you want to be, and you don’t at the same time

But I live.