Published 2017

When I’ve moved my whole life, 

staying in the same place seems off. 

Now, I sit in strife, 

and my words become something
people no longer brush off. 

Moving was a chance to start over, 

but how is it going to be now that
I am stuck in the same place?

Now, I sit and watch my ruined
relationships spill over,

and I wish I could hide
with a mask over my face.

See, I am a Kid Soldier.

The daughter of a war-fighting nomad.

But beyond this, I am a Solo Kid Soldier.

The only daughter of a war-fighting nomad.

We Solos suffer the most.

We are lone wanderers.

Playing with our shadows and talking with ghosts, 

we are bored wanderers.

It is a sad life, really. 

A survival story they say
you can share with your
university’s admissions counselor– 

a selling point. 

And you can write about it
all you want, but they can’t
comprehend the lonely and painful
prices you pay to meet this life’s demand. 

They,

who throw out “Military Brat.”

They will never understand.
Understand the fear of knowing
your dad is in some foreign land
being shot at every day. 

Understand the tears of relief that
stream down your face once you get
a call or an email, telling you he is alive,
telling you he is ok. 

Understand how far your heart falls
when you hear another news report
of a bombing near where he is.

Understand how it feels to be able
to breathe again after finding
out he wasn’t there. 

Understand what a heart crashing down
and shattering sounds like, after hearing
he has to go and do it all over again.
After he just came back.
Off to God knows where.

Understand how many buckets
your tears could fill. How heart-wrenching
it is to see him lifeless after coming back,
sitting silent and still.  

They will never hear your frustrated screams,

or hear the pep talks you tell yourself,
repeating, “He will be ok.” 

They will never hear your prayers for his well being

or see the sad smile painted on your face
as you cry into your “Welcome Back” bouquet. 

They.

They will never know how disgraceful
and idiotic the term “Military Brat” is. 

We.

We aren’t brats. 

We are tough.

We are military kids.

Unified in this:

We all feel the sting of goodbye’s tears, 

the salty sea that slips through the cracks
of our lips, burning our unwilling tongue.

We all feel the fear of changed numbers, 

of losing touch.

We all grow two or three extra layers of protection.

We all have hope for the best. 

We.

We are Kid Soldiers,

fighting everyday with life and hoping
to succeed and end up happy. 

Standing long and tall as an “Army of One,”

we respect, 

we understand, 

we accept, 

we adapt, 

we work hard, 

every day, 

every night, 

in our every dream,

and our every thought. 

Fighting, Protecting, and Serving. 

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

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About DEEP

“We envision a Savannah where our young people and their families thrive as learners, community leaders, and artists; and we envision a community, a government, and institutions that hear, value, and respond to their voices with equity, justice, and care.” DEEP Center

I joined the DEEP Block by Block writing program as a sophomore in high school. It’s a community-based program for young writers that takes us around the city to interview locals and express the complex themes we absorb—about life, poverty, success, love, family, support, and more—through poetry. At the end of the program, our work was published in a full collection for the year. I wrote this piece as a retaliation to a high school teacher who called me a military brat. I hated -and hate- being called that because I’ve suffered a lot at the hands of the US military. Yes, it kept my father employed and my family fed, but at the cost of my family’s collective mental wellbeing. I wanted to make that known. I am not a military brat.