No. 1

Keep opinions to yourself;

Only share if you are asked.

No. 2

Show the real you to the world;

Do not hide behind a mask.

No. 3

Love yourself the best you can;

Then you’ll have more love to share.

No. 4

Acting right’s not hard to know;

Do what’s kind and just and fair.

No. 5

Planet Earth is all we’ve got,

So keep her clean and healthy.

No. 6

Money isn’t everything;

Yearn to be more than wealthy.

No. 7

Everything is connected;

You’re one part of a Great Whole.

No. 8

Be the best you you can be;

Focus on growing your soul.

I’m no good at poetry

I suck at writing verse

My sentences lack symmetry

And my stanzas? Even worse!

The words I choose don’t fit

And my vocabulary’s absurd

The rhythmic quality’s shit

And the meanings are all blurred

I wish that I could write

Something elegant and prosaic

Instead my poem’s a blight

Like a poorly done mosaic

Were I to channel the ghost

Of a Tennyson or Blake

My poetry would be host

To something spiritually awake

Alas! I have before me

Something bland, almost dead

Surely readers yearn to flee

Pull the covers up, hide in bed

I think that I shall put away

That awful prankster Muse

And from this point strive to allay

Her machinations to confuse

Rest assured, my dear reader

’Tis the last you’ll read from me…

Till that Muse (God, I need her!)

Whispers another monstrosity

The intercom rudely woke me from my hangover nap. Reaching groggily over to the phone, I tapped the button and barked, “What is it?”

“There’s someone here to see you, boss.” My assistant’s nasally voice still irritated me after over a year, but she was good at keeping records and doing some of the footwork I didn’t feel like doing myself. Plus she made a hell of a peach pie. “Looks sort of important, if you ask me.”

“Send ’em in.” I swung my feet down off the desk, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and smoothed down my hair just in time for a dandy with a powdered wig to march into my office. I rose and awkwardly bowed.

“Why are you bowing to me?” the man asked pompously. “I’m merely a servant in her majesty’s service. Your presence is requested in the royal palace immediately. You are Mr. Kit McCartie, I presume?”

“The one and only,” I replied, grabbing my hat and my coat off the hangar. “What’s this all about?”

“You have the reputation of being the best private investigator in the realm. Her majesty requires your services.”

This case oughta tide me over for a while. “Then let’s not keep her majesty waiting.”

Powdered-wig man wrinkled his nose. “Er, perhaps a breath mint is in order first?”

Slightly offended, I yelled to the outer office, “Hey Bets, ya got any mints on ya?”

“In your left coat pocket, boss!” Yeah, I’m keepin’ this one, nasally voice or not.

The royal coach was waiting for us on the street below. Powdered wig held the door open for me and I climbed in. The royals still used horses and carriages despite the rest of us driving cars and riding motorbikes. My old jalopy would have looked like a piece of junk next to this jewelry box on wheels. A while later we pulled up in front of the palace. Powdered wig led me to the Queen’s receiving room, where she sat waiting for me.

I knew the old broad’s story, but it was still a shock to see her sitting there on her pillow, all regal and such. Seems she pissed off some witch earlier this year and got herself turned into a frog. Not only herself, but her son, Prince Reginald, too. I glanced around the room, with its opulent furnishings, priceless pieces of art, velvet drapes, and gold-trimmed woodwork. She seemed to be the only amphibian in the room. I bowed low at the waist. “Your majesty.”

“Mr. McCartie. Please rise.” She gestured to a chair near her regal pillow. “Take a seat.” It was a command, not an offer. I did as I was told.

“Would you care for some tea?”

I wondered what kind of water a frog might brew her tea in. “No, thank you, your highness.”

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I summoned you here today.”

“It’s not often a lowly private eye like me gets the attention of someone like you, ma’am.”

An unfortunate fly buzzed too close to her majesty’s head. The Queen lashed out her tongue and made a quick snack of it. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. McCartie. Your monicker of private eye is what makes you unique. I believe you are a seer, sir. You see things that most others do not.”

“Nothing magical about it, ma’am. Just keen observation.” Well, maybe a little magic every now and then.

“Nevertheless, you are the best in the realm, and I require your services.”

She readjusted herself on the pillow, causing the tiny, jewel-encrusted tiara on her head to tip precariously. A nearby lady-in-waiting rushed over to straighten it.

“Thank you, Melanie,” the Queen said. “Life can be quite inconvenient when one has no thumbs. Never take yours for granted, Mr. McCartie.”

“Never do, ma’am.”

“Now, let’s get down to business, shall we? I presume you are aware of my…situation?”

“I read the official press release in The Cosmic Continuum.” That was the realm’s most widely distributed publication. It explained how the Queen and the Prince had pissed off a witch, who cursed them by turning them both into frogs. I had also heard dirt on the street and in the bars that contradicted the “official” story: that the Queen had been experimenting with magic and accidentally turned herself and her son into frogs; that the ghost of the king had cast a spell in revenge for decades of abuse, and the poor Prince got caught in the crossfire; and my favorite, that it was beauty treatments gone horribly wrong.

“Then you are aware that my son, Prince Reginald—Reggie, as he is affectionately known—was also, er, transformed.”

“Where is his highness the Prince?” I asked.

The Queen hesitated. She emitted what sounded like a small croak, but when I saw the tear in the corner of her bulbous eye, I realized she was choking back a sob. Always the stiff upper lip, these royal types.

“That is why you are summoned, Mr. McCartie. Reggie has disappeared. It’s been three days now. I know he is an adult, but it is unlike him to go away for so long. I fear that he may have gone for a swim in the pond and been—” Again, she choked back a sob. “Been devoured by a predator. Those horrid geese down there are infernal creatures. I’d have them all fricasseed and served in a casserole if it were up to me alone.” No doubt the animal rights activists, not to mention the animals themselves, would loudly protest. Not good PR for a Queen you can hold in the palm of your hand.

“So you want me to track down your son?”

“And bring him home to his mama, Mr. McCartie. Where he belongs. Frog or not, he is still the Prince and will someday rule this realm.”

“Alright. Shall we talk fees?”

“I will pay you handsomely, Mr. McCartie. If you are successful, you shall be able to retire in the country estate of your choice. If, however, you fail to find him… Well, there shall be no punishment, for you will have done nothing wrong. But you may find it extremely difficult to secure clients for your practice again…at least in this realm.”

A high-stakes case, eh? Bring it on, lady! “I accept the case, then.”

The Queen chuckled, or at least it sounded as much like a chuckle as a frog could make. “As if you have a choice. How quaint. Now, begone and find my son, Mr. McCartie. I’ll give you forty-eight hours before I send my werewolf guards to sniff you out.” She motioned to her lady-in-waiting—Melody, was it?—who handed me a card with an address on it. “Start with the witch who cast this abominable spell over us. I have a hunch she has something to do with it.”

I stood, bowed, and politely backed my way out of the room. For such a petite broad, the Queen could be very intimidating. Before I left the room, another fly found its way into her gullet. I stifled my gag reflex, then remembered I hadn’t had lunch yet myself.

Declining the offer to take the Queen’s carriage back to my office, I set off for the witch’s hovel on the edge of the city, stopping along the way for a hot dog and some fries at my favorite greasy spoon, washed down by a cold beer. I took the luxury of hailing a cab—it was on the Queen’s dime, after all—and soon found myself outside the hovel allegedly occupied by the hex-casting witch.

I knocked on the dilapidated door and waited. Shortly it was flung open by something I absolutely didn’t expect. Va-va-va-VOOM! The dame that greeted me was almost enough to make me think about batting for the other team. Fiery red hair cascaded over the shoulders of a young, voluptuous woman wearing an emerald-green satin day gown and holding a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder. Her full red lips frowned as she squinted baby blues beneath luxurious lashes. “Well?” she said.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “Kit McCartie, Private Eye.” I handed her my card. “I’m wondering if I might ask you a few questions?”

“What about?”

“Prince Reginald is missing. I’ve been hired by his mom, the Queen, to find him. I’m wondering if you might know something helpful?”

“Did you try looking in the royal ponds? Then again, no need to ‘leap’ to conclusions.” She laughed at her own pun. I just stared at her.

She shrugged. “OK, fine. Come in.” She sauntered over to a velvet divan and draped herself over it. “Champagne?”

“Not while I’m on the job, thanks.” I looked around. The hovel was anything but on the inside. Not only was it opulently furnished, it was larger—much larger—on the inside than it seemed on the outside. “You have good taste. Interior decorating spell?”

She took a puff on her cigarette, blowing out a smoke ring that quickly morphed into something a gentleman doesn’t discuss in the presence of a lady unless he’s her doctor. If she’s hinting, she’s barking up the wrong tree. “The only magic involved is in the flip-flopped size. Everything else was done the old-fashioned way: I bought it. Or it was gifted to me. Now, what’s this about Prince Reginald?”

“Seems he’s gone missing. His ma is very upset, afraid there’s been foul play. Since you have, er, connections with the family, I thought I’d start my investigation with you. Seen him around lately?”

“No. Are we done?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

She sighed impatiently. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe at that ostentatious ball the Queen gave earlier this year? You know, the one I wasn’t invited to?”

Witches get sore about that sort of thing. If they feel they’ve been dissed, they get all revengy. I thought now was a good time to change the subject. “Mind if I look around? I’ve never been in a witch’s house. All this spell and hex stuff is fascinating.”

Another impatient sigh. “Be my guest.” The dame could turn me into a frog, too, probably with a wave of her hand. But witches don’t take magic lightly, fortunately. And their code dictates that they not use magic for personal gain. Probably why she bought her nice stuff instead of conjuring it up.

The witch blew another obscene smoke ring and reclined seductively on her divan. “By the way, I’m Miranda.” She leered as she pulled the top of her day gown down just a tad to reveal even more cleavage, something I thought wouldn’t have been possible. “Have you ever dated a witch?”

I pretended not to notice her efforts to seduce me, instead noting the various bottles and jars on her shelf: tongue of dog, wing of bat, toe of frog. “Don’t you have a boyfriend, er, down south?”

“Who, him?” She threw her head back and laughed. “Have you ever met him?”

“Can’t say that I have.” There was an open spell book on the table, written in some arcane script. I took my magnifying glass out of my pocket and scanned the open pages more closely.

“Easy on the eyes, but otherwise disgusting. He’ll make all sorts of promises that he never keeps, and he’ll tell you anything just to have his way with you.

Known a few of those in my day. I put the magnifying glass back in my pocket and continued surveying Miranda’s work station.

“And he reeks of sulfur. Always smells like a fart.”

Known a few of those, too.

“Anyway, the idea that witches cavort with the devil is a fable we allow to circulate among mortals to keep us witches more intimidating. Our magic comes naturally. Spells and potions are just the vessels for the magic to flow.” She gazed at me threateningly. “Trade secret. Tell anybody and I’ll have to kill you.” She winked, but I was not comforted.

“Don’t worry. Secrets are safe with me.”

“Miranda, I finished cleaning the pool.” I turned to see a young man fresh from the veranda outside. I hadn’t noticed him before. And believe me, I would have noticed someone like him: Naked from the waist up, he had chiseled abs, bulging biceps, and broad shoulders attractively packaged in skin the color of a mocha latte. Long, muscular legs emerged from the bottom of his scanty swimsuit, which also showed off his other assets. A mop of curly, longish dark hair shadowed bushy brows and shiny dark eyes. Nope, definitely not changing teams.

I offered my hand. “Kit McCartie, at your service.”

He wiped his wet hand on his trunks and shook mine. “I’m uh, er—”

“This is Reynaldo, my pool boy.” Miranda said hastily. “Reynaldo, Mr. McCartie is investigating the disappearance of Prince Reginald.”

“Oh. So, the Prince is, uh, missing?” he stammered.

“Yes. His mom hired me to find him. Did you know him, by any chance?”

“Reynaldo is new here,” interrupted Miranda. “Came from the next realm to the east. Looking for a better life here. I gave him an opportunity.”

Yeah, I bet you’ve given him all sorts of opportunities. “Nice to meet you, Reynaldo. Good luck in your new life here.” I surreptitiously took one more head to foot scan of Reynaldo. He was flawless except for one minor peculiarity that I made a mental note of.

“Mr. McCartie was just leaving,” said Miranda as she took my arm by the elbow and led me none too delicately to the door. “I do hope you find poor Prince Reginald soon. His mother must be worried sick. Why, she’ll probably ‘croak’ from all the stress.” Again, she cackled at her own pun.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Miranda. Reynaldo.” I saw myself out the door, walked to the main road, and hailed a passing cab to take me back to my office.

When I got back, Bets was doing her nails at her desk and gossiping with one of her girlfriends on the phone. She barely acknowledged me as I entered. Peach pie, peach pie, peach pie. In my office I took a blank sheet of paper and, laying it out on my desk, I held my magnifying glass over it. Peering through the glass, I could see the writing from Miranda’s spellbook. Only this time, it was written in a script I could read. The glass had been given to me by a former client, a dealer of magical tools whose prized crystal ball had been stolen. I found the ball and returned it to him. He gave me the magnifying glass as payment, explaining that it would not only remember the last thing it had seen, but it would show me what it truly was. Since I didn’t read arcane languages, the glass translated it for me. A very valuable tool for a private eye.

When I saw the spell Miranda had been working on, and when I remembered the peculiar detail I noted about Reynaldo, I put two and two together and decided that I needed to pay another visit to the witch and her pool boy. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was happy hour at my favorite bar, the Nosy Owl, and I owed Bets a drink for forgetting her birthday last month. “Hey Bets, pack it up. Drinks are on me.” That got her attention; whatever conversation she was having with her girlfriend abruptly ended, and she was ready to go before I could even get my hat and coat back on.

The next morning I drove my jalopy back to Miranda’s hovel/mansion. “Why, Mr. McCartie,” she said lasciviously. “Couldn’t stay away, I see?”

“May I come in?” Miranda gestured me in and shut the door behind me. “Can I get you a drink? Coffee, maybe?”

“I’m good, thanks. Is Reynaldo here?”

“He’s still asleep. He was up late last night.”

I bet he was. “Could you wake him, please? This is important.”

Miranda huffed, then yelled at the top of her lungs, “Reynaldo! Wake up! That gumshoe from yesterday is here to see you!”

A few moments later, Reynaldo appeared from the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Again, he was naked from the waist up. Geez, does this guy ever wear a shirt? Not that I’m complaining. But at least his legs were covered by a pair of loose-fitting pajama bottoms. “Sorry to disturb you both, but I have more questions.”

“We’ve told you everything we know,” Miranda said impatiently. “I turned the Queen and the Prince into frogs because they didn’t invite me to their soiree. Reynaldo is new here and doesn’t even know about Prince Reginald. What more is there to tell?”

“First of all, you can tell me why you were working on a spell to change appearances. Incognito mojito, I think is what the recipe is called?”

Miranda and Reynaldo exchanged the briefest of glances. “I’m a witch, you dolt. We mix potions and cast spells. It’s what we do.”

“Who’s the incognito mojito spell for?”

Miranda hesitated. “Can’t say. Witch-client privilege.”

“I see.” I turned to Reynaldo. “Tell me, how did you lose your little toe on your right foot?”

Reynaldo was taken aback, just as I had hoped. He looked down worriedly at his right foot. “I, um…er, I…I lost it in a pool-cleaning accident?” It was more of a question than a statement.

Miranda heaved a great sigh. “Oh, give it up, Reginald. He’s a seer and a private eye. He’ll figure it out eventually anyway.

“But, Miranda, you promised—”

“I promised I’d help you escape that domineering bitch you call mother. I did that. It’s time for you to grow a pair and man up. Figure out what’s next for yourself.”

“Anybody care to explain?” I asked. “And I’d take that cup of coffee now.”

Miranda conjured up two coffees and a tea for the three of us, assuring me that there were no amnesia potions in them when I looked skeptical. After settling ourselves on chairs—well, Reyna—er, Reginald and I on chairs, Miranda on her divan—the witch began the story.

“Reginald and I met when we were both youngsters.”

“Both youngsters? I was barely fifteen. You’re over a hundred years old.”

Miranda shot him a warning glance. “It’s rude to interrupt, dear. As I was saying, Reginald and I have known each other for a while now. I was serving as an advisor to Reginald’s father, the King. The Queen was extremely jealous of me, even though nothing untoward ever happened between me and the King. That man was totally and completely devoted to that shrew he married, and none of my feminine wiles were effective on him.” She eyed me curiously. “Much as they were not effective on you, Mr. McCartie. Perhaps you and the King shared something in common?”

“Just go on with the story,” I said.

“Oh, very well. After the King died, Reginald was distraught. His mother, however, offered little to no comfort. I stepped in to be that comfort.”

“To a kid?” I asked accusingly.

“Get your mind out of the gutter! I might be a temptress, but I do have scruples, Mr. McCartie. How insulting.”

“No offense intended,” I said. “So you sort of became Reginald’s surrogate mother?”

“Surrogate sister,” corrected Miranda. “I’m not old enough to be his mother.”

“Well, actually—" started Reginald.

“Hush!” Miranda shushed. “Yes, our relationship became something like that of an older sister-younger brother thing.”

“So, what happened to make you want to run away from your mother?” I asked Reginald.

He sighed. “I fell in love with someone she wouldn't have approved of.”

I cocked my head. “What, a debutante from an undesirable family? A princess from an enemy realm?”

“No,” Reginald said. “One of my mom’s guards, a werewolf named Simon.”

“I see.” My instincts on most things were keen, but when it came to identifying men like me, they sucked. “So your mom had a problem with you loving another man?”

“Oh, heavens no,” interrupted Miranda. “It was the fact that the object of our dear Reggie’s love was—is, rather—inhuman. Seems the Queen is a huge racist.”

Reginald’s face was shrouded in sadness. “Miranda’s right. Mom’s very prejudiced against anybody who isn’t one hundred percent pure human.”

"Which made turning her into a frog all the more enjoyable," Miranda added gleefully.

“So how’d you get out of the palace and all the way over here to Miranda’s?” I asked.

“Simon snuck me out. He transformed, we met in the dark outside the palace, and he carried me here in his mouth.”

“Must be true love for a werewolf not to devour a frog in its mouth,” I said. “So what’s your plan?”

Reginald shrugged. “Not sure, really. I just know I can’t go back to that palace, not if I’m unable to be with Simon.”

I understood that. I’d been in love once, long ago. I would have done lots of things to be with him. Did some of them, too. That didn’t end well.

“Well, your ma is expecting me to bring her son back by tomorrow morning. Said if I didn’t, I might never work in this town again.”

“Gee, Mr. McCartie. I’m sorry about that. But I can’t go back right now, not just yet.”

“I think I might have a solution,” piped in Miranda. “One of those win-win ones. Reggie darling, didn’t you say you’d found a frog stranded in the pool yesterday?”

“Yeah, swimming around trying to find a way out. I rescued him just in time.” I guess having been a frog once gave Reginald a level of compassion for amphibians. I wondered if he’d developed a taste for houseflies, too?

“Be a doll and go fetch him to me.”

As Miranda prepped her potion brewing station, she asked, “So besides interpreting the spell with that nifty little glass of yours, what else tipped you off? I thought the disguise spell worked pretty well.”

“It did. But one of your jars is labeled Toe of Frog. And I noticed that Reynaldo, or Reginald rather, was missing a little toe.” I was impressed that Reginald was willing to sacrifice a toe for the love of his life. “Why did it have to be Reginald’s toe? Why not one off that frog in your pool?”

“The spell works best if it’s the toe of a frog that used to be human. One of those little witchy trade secrets. Human parts are always better.” That last part sent a brief chill down my spine.

“She’s joking,” said Reginald, hapless frog in hand. “Found the little guy hiding in the ferns.” He placed the frog carefully in a small box on the table and closed the lid so it couldn’t hop out. “The story about Miranda feeling angry about not being invited to a royal party and turning us royals into frogs was just part of the plan to get me out of the palace without being seen.”

“Give me your hand,” Miranda commanded Reginald. He held it out and she pricked his index finger with the tip of a long, silver needle. Squeezing a single drop into a mortar, she then mixed in some other dried ingredients. “We used Reggie’s toe for the spell because we were in a hurry and couldn’t find a frog around. And I was completely out of toe of frog. Simple as that.”

“Must have hurt like a sonofabitch,” I said.

“Nah. Miranda cast a sleeping spell on me. Never felt a thing.”

When Miranda had crushed and mixed the ingredients to her satisfaction, she ordered Reginald to hold out his hands. Shaking a generous amount of powder into his hands, she then told him to clutch the frog firmly in both hands and repeat after her:

“Persona replicatus!”

“Persona replicatus!” mimicked Reginald.

A strange glow enveloped Reginald’s head, then traveled down both arms, into his hands, and penetrated the frog. The amphibian blinked its wide eyes several times, then said, “Oh wow! This is so cool!”

“Unbelievable!” said the frog and Reginald simultaneously.

Miranda nodded in satisfaction. “Success! Reginald, you are now free of your mother and the royal life for as long as you wish. Frog, you are now Prince Reginald the Frog. You will go to the palace and assume the real Prince Reginald’s identity. A posh life awaits you. You’ll be the most comfortable frog in the realm.”

“You mean, all the flies and slugs I can eat? No geese or foxes trying to eat me for lunch? And water? There will be water?”

“All that and more, my little friend,” said Miranda.

“Score!” yelled the frog. “When do we leave?”

A couple of hours later, after a short stop for lunch at the Nosy Owl—the special of the day was frog legs, but I just couldn’t—I proceeded to the palace. The Queen was on her pillow, tiara in place, eyeing a roly-poly bug that had somehow found its way into the palace and was crawling across the floor. “Ah, Mr. McCartie! I trust you bring me good news?”

“Better than that,” I said, opening the box. The fake Prince Reginald hopped out and over to the Queen. “Mom! I’m home! Oh, I missed you so much!”

They hugged and kissed as well as frogs can do. Before leaving Miranda’s, we had all created a backstory for the frog: he had gone for a brief swim in the pond, been frightened by some geese, and hopped into the gardener’s basket for safety. The gardener, not realizing that the Prince was hiding in his basket, took it to the edges of the palace grounds and dumped it into a wagon, which then hauled the garden debris—along with the Prince—to the town dump for disposal. The disoriented Prince was hopping along the road when the cook from the Nosy Owl, who happens to be quite hard of hearing, saw him and captured him but was unable to hear the Prince’s cries for help. It was only when I went to the Nosy Owl for lunch today that I heard the Prince’s cries and realized who he was, saving him from the frying pan.

“It seems as if fortune was with you, Mr. McCartie,” said the Queen. “You didn’t use any sleuthing skills at all. In fact, it’s by pure chance you found my son.” She motioned to a servant, who brought over her purse. “Here’s a gold coin for your time, anyway.” The servant tossed it to me. “Now begone and let me and my little Reggie spend some quality time together.”

As I took my leave, I saw the fake Prince Reggie give me a wink. He was set for a long, long time to come. I, however, was unable to retire to a country estate. But at least I had one more gold coin today than I had yesterday. And I helped two lovers be together. Reggie said Simon would resign his post as a palace guard, Miranda would whip up an incognito mojito potion for him—fake Reggie the frog generously agreed to donate a toe for it—and the two lovers would disappear and lay low for a while, at least until the time was right for Reggie to confront his mom. What more could a private eye in a magical realm hope for?

OK, OK, there’s a lot more I could hope for. But it’s happy hour somewhere, and I have a gold coin burning a hole in my pocket.

I once saw God in a dream:

A small child of ambiguous race and gender;

When I asked, “Can you see me?”

The child nodded and smiled.

I once heard God in the middle of the night:

Feeling afraid and alone, the voice said,

“Everything’s going to be alright.”

And it was. And it is.

I once felt God’s touch:

As my little dog lay dying in my arms,

In anguish I cried out, “Where are you, God?”

And I felt my dog’s head rest on my chest, his eyes turned up to mine.

God doesn’t show God’s face often.

God doesn’t speak out loud much.

God’s touch is rare and precious.

But God is always near…

…always watching…

…always listening…

…always reaching out…

…always loving me.

The current Black Lives Matter movement is driving long-overdue conversations around racial injustice and white privilege. For many educated, progressive white people, these conversations are not new. We’ve had them in academic, political, and religious circles for decades. For many others, the terms are surprising because we didn’t realize that systemic racial injustice was still such a huge problem, and we never thought of ourselves as the beneficiaries of privileges that we’ve taken for granted because of the color of our skin. Our emotions have ranged from anger to denial to shame to determination to be and do better.

On a personal level, I have been thinking of what it means to have a white identity. I came of age in predominantly white, small-town central Texas in the early to mid-1980s. I had very little contact with people who were different from me except for Latinx people, who comprised about a third of the population of my small hometown. There were racial tensions, to be sure; and while there were some Latinx business owners, football heroes, and cheerleaders, brown-skinned people were under-represented in civic leadership and in our Protestant faith congregations. We white people mostly were either ignorant of the struggles of our Latinx neighbors, or we shamefully ignored them. A few whites were, and still are, outright racists. But as members of the local status quo, most of us didn’t have to think about what it meant to be white.

College wasn’t much better. I had my first conversations and friendships with Black people in college, but for the most part, we drama geeks kept to ourselves, and theater wasn’t something that the Black students were drawn to, most likely due to the lack of roles made available for Black actors at the time.

It wasn’t until the 1990s, when I went abroad to teach English in Korea, that I was compelled to confront my own racial and ethnic identity on a deeper level. Suddenly I was surrounded by people who did not look like me, and whose language I couldn’t understand. I had to learn to navigate a status quo that I wasn’t born into. It was both uncomfortable and life-changing, and it resulted in some of the proudest moments of my adult life. I developed a new identity based on my cultural fluidity. Many expatriates didn’t survive past their first one-year contracts. Some broke contract and left early. One American couple lasted a weekend before they exited surreptitiously in the middle of the night. I not only survived, but thrived there for over eight years!

In the late 1990s I fell in love with a Chinese-American and began a relationship that lasted more than thirteen years. I returned to America for him, and with him I learned more about the experiences of Asian-Americans. I am now married to a man who is from Hawaii, a hapa of both Japanese and Sephardic Jewish heritages. His ancestors on both sides of his family endured persecution: his father’s family during World War II, when they were already firmly American in identity but seen as the enemy by other Americans; and his mother in her European homeland, where Nazis attempted genocide on people of Jewish descent.

I confess that there is a part of me that envies all of the non-white people who became a part of my life experience—Latinx, Black, Asian-American, Jewish-American—for their strong sense of identity rooted in their race and cultural heritages. Growing up, I only had the stories my father and mother passed on to me, stories which were little more than family legend. My father said we were Scots-Irish and Black Dutch descended. My mother said her ancestor was a criminal who jumped ship in the Americas. Both sets of grandparents died before I was born, and family records were scarce, so I had little to go on. Poor people simply didn’t write a lot down back then, I guess—if they could even write at all—because who you were and where you came from were irrelevant to who you became on the frontier. The fact that my ancestors moved willingly to that frontier, however, is evidence of their privilege at the time being white.

As the internet became more ubiquitous in the early 2000s, I began to research my heritage. Through online digging and communications, I learned that my paternal ancestor left the Southeast, either one of the Carolinas or Georgia, to move to Texas in the mid-1800s. And when easy ancestry DNA testing became available, several tests returned similar results. Most recently I have learned that I am of 94% British Isles descent, more than 50% of which is Scots-Irish. The other 6% is Scandinavian. These scientific findings encouraged me to research the history of the British Isles, especially that of the Celtic peoples who settled there. I guess I could call myself an Anglo-Celtic-American.

But do I identify as white? I answer “white” when I have to complete a survey of my ethnicity. But what in the world does it mean to be “white”? I’ve met Latinx and Asian people who were literally whiter than I am. And on those survey forms, people of Middle Eastern descent are often lumped into the white category. Who decides this stuff? And do they all agree on the classifications? And why are we classified as such, anyway?

My real name doesn’t inform my whiteness, either. While it is of English origin, there is a similar-sounding Arabic name that is sometimes spelled the same way. I’ve even had Arabic people ask me what part of the Middle East I am from. And my real given name is so rare that I have only ever encountered a few individuals with it.

Constructing my identity has been a lifelong endeavor that will probably continue to my dying day. But I’m not sure I will ever identify as white; it’s more of a descriptor than an identity. I wouldn’t dare celebrate my whiteness. Nonwhites would immediately think of me as a white supremacist, and the latter would think of me as a member of their ranks, a thought that literally nauseates me. I can safely celebrate my Anglo-Celtic heritage, but my ancestor relocated to this continent more than two hundred years ago and, for whatever reason, chose not to cling to his prior identity as a British subject, so that identity is purely constructed by me based on my DNA findings, my family name, and my interest in Anglo-Celtic history and culture. I’m a native Texan, but the stereotypical Texan who wears boots and cowboy hats, carries a gun, drinks beer, goes to rodeos, and such, is so far removed from who I am that it is completely alien to me. I identify as a member of the LGBTQ community, but that has nothing at all to do with race or ethnicity.

My problem here, I think, is that I am constructing my identity through lenses and definitions that have been handed to me, rather than constructing it for myself. Labels created by academics and politicians are often self-serving. No researcher or scientist is 100% objective. No politician has 100% of the people’s best interests in mind. I would assert that labeling is usually rooted in dualistic, oppositional thinking. That’s dangerous because it creates an us vs. them mentality, the haves vs. the have-nots, the insiders vs. the outsiders. That’s not to say that the status quo doesn’t need changing; does it ever. But dualistic thinking only results in separation, not unity. It has resulted in all forms of oppression, from the subjugation of women to the enslavement of Africans and indigenous people to genocides and mass exterminations. And it continues to divide our communities today.

Each individual human being should be empowered to construct their own identity, and no one should limit them based on the color of their skin, the first language they learned, the biological sex they were assigned at birth, their gender expression, whom or how they love, how their bodies are constructed, how their minds work—nothing! Only by being able to determine for themselves who they are and who they want to become can human beings realize their full potential and create a world that is just and equitable for all. We all have a responsibility in realizing that vision, be it righting the wrongs committed by our ancestors, or making healthy choices for ourselves, or learning to be more loving and inclusive and less fearful. As for myself, I will take notes from my faith tradition and work on removing the plank from my own eye before I attempt to remove the speck from my neighbor’s eye. I will seek more to understand than to be understood. I will work to love my neighbor as myself. In loving myself, I will be the master of my own identity, and I will construct one that I can be proud of, that is respectable, kind, just, and humble.

“You have no business here, fowl!”

I slowly turned my white, heart-shaped face to gaze at the creature over my left wing. Casually blinking my large, dark eyes, I nonchalantly replied, “Do you own this barn?”

The large gray cat behind me squinted her orange eyes and hissed, “Our kind were here first!”

“Your kind came on a boat with humans. My kind has lived here for tens of thousands of years. We were here first. Begone!” I turned my gaze downward, looking for mice, snakes, and other vermin upon which I could feed.

“I could tear you apart with my claws!” the cat screamed.

“And I could pick you up, carry you off, and drop you to your death on the stones below.” I spread my wings to indicate just how simple that task would be. When I turned to look the cat in her eyes, she had slunk away to the shadows, no doubt to cower in fear as her kind usually does.

“Well done, owl,” said a voice from below. I gazed down to see my old friend, the hound dog. Sway-backed and almost toothless, the wizened lord of the farm wagged his tail. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“And it is good to see you,” I replied. I jumped from my perch in the rafters and landed on the rail of the stall where the simple-minded jenny mule slept, oblivious to the altercation that had occurred above her. Better that than if she had been awake. My entrances often startled her into a braying fit. The milk cow in the next stall mooed softly in greeting. “And a good evening to you, too, ma’am,” I said politely. She swished her tail and chewed her cud contentedly.

The old hound dog pawed at the hay on the floor, circled a few times, then plopped himself down on the straw bed he had made for himself. He heaved a great sigh of contentment then asked, “How’s the hunting this evening?”

“I was about to munch on a quite plump mouse when the cat interrupted my meal.”

The hound dog chuckled. “She’s good at that, you know. Causing trouble and getting in the way of things. I’d break her neck with my fangs if I had any left. Ah, but that would just upset the mistress. For some reason beyond my ken, she likes the vile creature.”

“There’s no accounting for bad taste,” I said as I glided off the rail, swooped down, and snatched the plump mouse in my beak. I offered a quick, silent prayer of thanks for my meal, quickly broke the poor thing's neck to spare it further suffering, then swallowed it almost whole.

“That should hold you for a while,” the hound dog said.

I looked at the lightening sky in the east through the barn door. “Until at least tonight,” I said.

Movement from the human’s house caught my attention. “I’d better disappear for now,” I announced. “Take care, old friend.”

The hound dog’s response was a soft snore and some movement from his paws, followed by a low growl. Maybe dreaming about cracking the cat’s neck, I thought as I returned to the rafters to conceal my presence.

I watched silently from my perch as the mistress entered the barn, carrying a lantern in her hand. I pitied the humans their inability to see in the dark, to rely on fire for their light. I watched as she set the lantern on the rail of the milk cow’s stall. She entered and placed the stool near the cow’s udders, then reached for a bucket to collect the milk she would pull from the mammal’s glands. What a curious habit, I thought to myself. I’ve never seen a creature drink the milk of another like the humans drink from cows. Yet she did this every morning, faithfully, no matter the season. If she was unable, her mate would come. Humans are such a strange yet fascinating species.

Suddenly a pitiful noise issued from the house. The human’s youngling cried out for her in a most distressing way. Awakened by the noise, the hound dog rose to his feet and nudged the human. Concerned, she knocked the stool over and rushed from the barn to see what was the matter in the house. The cow mooed in irritation. The jenny continued to snooze.

The cat, however, appeared suddenly on the rail near the lantern. She approached it cautiously at first, then began pawing at it curiously.

“Careful!” I cried. “Fire is one human tool you do not want to trifle with.”

“Shut up, owl,” she hissed. “I live with humans. You live in the wild like a savage.”

“I observe and I know things.”

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do.” She continued pawing at the lantern.

“Stop!” I screeched. Startled by my warning, the jenny mule awoke just in time to see the cat knock the lantern from the rail onto the hay below. The flames were immediate.

The jenny brayed and kicked in fear. She leaped over the rail of her stall and ran out the door of the barn and into the twilight of the dawn. The poor cow, though, was tied to a post, unable to escape her stall, which would soon be engulfed in flames, too.

I flew from my perch and out the barn door, screeching my loudest warnings. I alit on the sill of the window. Inside I could see the human holding her youngling. I pecked at the glass, but I could not catch her attention. The youngling, however, heard and saw me. Pointing and cooing at my sight, the mother turned to see what her hatchling was looking at. Her eyes widened as she saw the flames inside the barn behind me. The hound dog howled and clawed at the door to the house, and the mule stood nearby, braying mournfully. Surely the human heard them, too? Placing her youngling in a nearby nest, she shook the shoulders of her mate, who sat with his back to the window. These humans had a curious way of communicating without sound, using their hands instead of their mouths. Her mate turned and stared in horror at the growing flames in the barn.

Jumping from the windowsill, I flew back into the barn and as close to the flames as I could. “Fear not!” I shouted to the cow. “Your master and mistress are coming with water.” The poor creature’s fur was singed near her hooves, but fortunately, the flames themselves had not yet reached her.

Before too long, the fire was extinguished. There was damage in the barn, but it had been saved. Thankfully the cow was only slightly harmed with nothing that a little salve couldn’t heal.

The wooden railings still smoldered that evening as the sun set, but they had been drenched in water; no burning embers remained. The fire had stirred the mice in the barn, which made hunting all the easier.

“You saved them, you know,” the hound dog said as he sauntered into the barn and looked up at my perch. “They would have never heard me howling and barking at the door until it was too late.”

“Just protecting my food source,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true. I had grown fond of the humans and of the hound dog, and even of the jenny mule and the cow since my coming to roost in this barn.

“Have you seen the cat around lately?” asked the hound dog.

“No.” I lied. I had seen her, slinking in the shadows after the fire had been extinguished. I knew her crime, and I told her if she showed herself here again, I would make good on my promise to dash her on the rocks from a great height. No doubt she had already taken up residence in a neighboring farm’s barn.

“The mistress will miss her, you know,” warned the hound dog.

“The mistress doesn’t know the cat is an arsonist,” I replied.

The hound dog chuckled. “True that,” he said as he made a new bed of fresh straw on the barn floor. “Happy hunting,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

I smiled at my old friend, then swooped down to snatch a snake wriggling across the hay toward the cow’s stall. “All in a day’s work,” I replied.