I know what they call me.

A(merican)B(razilian)[or]C(anadian)

A B or C:

They attempt to define by category.

Which makes me always alien, always foreign,

Never from where I currently am.

Perpetual motion, the life of a nomad.

Common census isn’t common sense

Different is not equivalent of weird.

Our commonality is our humanness.

Presuppositions are fictitious.

Peel off the stereotypes to find

That I am like you and you are like me.

I don’t want to stop moving

Or stop learning

I simply want to inform, defeat the ignorance.

I have the words,

looking for the platform.

Maybe in a big city where we’re all a little mixed up.

The wanderers, the ethnic.

The vibrant and the defeated.

New York City, where diversity thrives

The center of the world, magnetic.

So many stories, intertwined in one place.

My own story flips to a new page

A letter saying:

Accepted.

What an offer!

To study in New York and maybe some day

Work in a big studio with a large audience,

Or behind a desk, accompanied solely by a pen.

But mainly observing, interacting, and understanding

To be the voice for the overlooked.

And to keep the oblivious accountable.

Redefining the generalizations

By getting to know the individual.  

Depicting the stories that go unnoticed.

A city like New York is expensive,

But a city like New York is worth it.

This college acceptance

Makes me one step closer.

I know what they call me,

And I know what I want to be called:

Journ(eyer)a(nd)list(ener)

Journalist.

My dream reality.