Who AM I?

I’m still not sure who I am. 
Eighty years and still don’t know
completely 
who or what I am.

I am still growing, at least, in understanding.

Oh, I’m a male. I know that,
having the equipment.
But that doesn’t explain who I am.

I’m different in the ways I think
and the ways I react to experience,
what I love and hate.
There is much I can’t tolerate.

I guess that’s what makes me a poet.
But I still ask why?
What has made me the way that I am?

Is it my inherited make up? Or did I learn
in response to my experiences?
My father gone when I was young?
My mother “giving me to God?”

I learned to swim, play sports; did any jobs available
to earn some money.
I shined shoes. That embarrassed my mother.
But I cared for my integrity
and also freedom.

I would not lie and would not do
what in my heart I knew to be wrong.
I can be stubborn.
I also have a sense of humor
and am observant.

The few close friends I have had
have all been special.
Most were in their ways all mavericks.
All bright: men and women from whom I learned.

Neither of my parents was educated,
but my father was a reader.
He knew English and Swedish and Mendi,
an African language.
In California, he taught himself Spanish.

He loved word jokes
and taught us to converse in Pig Latin
which my mother could not understand.
It was from him I learned to love
playing with language.

The one area where my mother could show love was with pets:
cats, dogs and chickens.
She also loved animal stories,
but showed no regard for the poor.
I never could understand her.We were never friends.

Maybe this is why I write poetry: looking for myself.
And how I got to be whatever I am.
Maybe someone who reads my poetry will understand,
have the kindness to explain me!