Wherever I Go, Here I Am

no penicillin

My mortality never used to keep me up nights. Now, I hear a loud discussion on my street at midnight and this scene plays out: I go to the window and say, quietly, "Shhhh! People are sleeping," and then one of the loud talkers pulls out a gun and points it at my window. I run to my daughter's room, where she is just about to look out to check on the commotion. I run to the window and push her away, and I am shot.

I don't have too many thoughts like these, and, thankfully, they don't hang around long. I can shake them off. But eight years ago, my mortality was the last thing on my mind. I didn't think about what I smoked or drank or ate or snorted, didn't concern myself with whether I moved a muscle all day. If I woke up grateful to have done so, it's probably because I took an ugly chance the night before.

Once my daughter was born, my life became more centered around making sure I went to bed each night and woke up each morning. This means I now think about my diet, my cholesterol, my heart. I exercise—and even like it—but often think about keeling over from a heart or asthma attack. I have an unhealthy fear of death; it's true. And being robbed at gunpoint in the park a few years ago gave me another string on the fretboard.

But the things I carry regularly don't reveal my secret. I've got a camera, most of the time, just in case I spy a nice piece of road kill or a beautiful sunset or a criminal in the act. I have my credit and bank cards and my money bound by a ponytail holder. I have a cell phone, less for emergencies and more for a quick chit chat or a call from my daughter. I have my albuterol inhaler when I remember it. I carry a pen. I have my keys.

I travel light. A dozen attractive purses clutter the hallway and closet, but I use them only for an occasional meeting. I don't like to carry loose things, so if I'm taking a notebook or a book or magazine along with me somewhere, it has to fit in my pocketbook. But most of the time, I stuff those essentials in a tiny shoulder bag.

Even small, purses annoy me. If I weren't such a slave to fashion, I would choose pockets or a fanny pack 100% of the time. I like my arms free, my body unencumbered. I don't like to bend over to pick up a penny on heads and be whacked by a swinging bag. So even if I take a purse along on my erands--my coffee getting, my check cashing, my dollar-store browsing--I put the imperatives in my front and back pockets, and stuff the bag under my car seat.

I take less with me when I run—usually just my key if I'm doing the neighborhood. I'm never without that; it's more important to my survival than my driver's license.

A few years ago, when I was running regularly, I went to Petsmart and made myself a dog tag with my name, phone number, and the words, "No Penicillin." I laced it into my running shoe. Last week, when I bought a new pair of shoes, I nearly forgot to transfer that tag when I tossed the old pair. Now the tag is my keychain.

If, God forbid, some horrible thing were to happen to me while I was driving to the beach, running around the block, walking to the store for milk, my name is with me, my family is notified, and I don't get a deadly antibiotic while I wait for them, bleeding and unconscious somewhere in the world.

I spend my life exploring who I am through poetry and essay, through art and family and community. Who I am is stuck to me like my skin. I claim it. I celebrate it. I sing that "Song of Myself."

But just in case someone discovers me when I'm in a less-than-celebratory mood, I am never without the keys to my identity. Perhaps it is an extension of my desire for the whole world to know who I am.