They never said my name outright—
just flagged the shape of it.
Sifted through language like it was contraband,
held every syllable up to the light
and called it dangerous.
They crossed out the words that made me possible.
Equity: the way my mother split a can of beans
into four nights of dinner
and still made it feel like offering.
Indigenous: the part of my father
that never fit in English
no matter how hard I tried to fold it there.
My tongue bruised itself
trying to make room.
Neurodivergent: what they called my weather
when it didn’t match their forecast.
When I moved too fast or froze too long,
they blamed the storm,
not the faulty barometer.
Queer: how I learned to stitch myself
into a shape that could still feel like home,
even after every blueprint was shredded.
I was raised on rationed electricity
and full-throated refusal.
Our house hummed with broken things
that still worked.
Our prayers didn’t always rhyme
but they landed—
every single one a protest in lowercase.
They say activist like it’s a threat.
I say: we were poor and loud and alive—
what else could we be?
They say bias like it’s accidental.
I say: name one hallway
where I wasn’t already marked
before I entered.
They banned the word belong
but forgot I never asked for permission.
Banned mental health
but not the panic attacks
folded into school desks.
Banned inclusive
but not the violence of absence.
And still—
my body kept the archive.
Memory is not so easy to delete.
Let them strip the websites bare.
Let them rewrite every policy.
We will keep naming what they fear.
My mother’s laughter
when the power went out.
My brother’s face under hand-me-down stars.
The way I didn’t die,
even when they gave me every reason to.
You cannot redact a life
just because it offends your index.
We were never meant to be footnoted.
Âmî Jey is a neurodivergent poet, licensed occupational therapist, and researcher focused on trauma, neurodivergence, and systems of care. Their work has appeared in Humana Obscura, The Broadkill Review, and other literary journals.