Assumed Identity

It lay on the hotel bed -

a hoodie gifted at Christmas.

With one sleeve white, one sleeve black,

its brown letters

- outlined in orange on the grey front -

exclaimed its team:

Cleveland Browns.

Must I? I wondered, must I

assume an identity not true to me?

A Browns fan?

An NFL supporter?

A possible Trump voter -

given the many signs I saw

planted in wintering fields on our way?

I cringed, but for him -

I glanced at the curly haired boy

a few feet away -

For him - anything!

Hours later,

seated under the steel beams of an upper tier,

indistinguishable from 67,900 other people -

all adorned in combos of orange, and brown, and white too -

I rose for the national anthem.

And then remained as such

for the kickoff of the game.

A game, you know, of little importance,

to anyone but a Cleveland fan.

A year from now, maybe just a month,

I knew, - especially if they lost -

any significance would be forgotten by all

but those who wear such shirts.

And yet,

as the music pounded a steady beat,

and the QB powered them up the field,

and fans responded in return,

Shouting out,

"Here we go, Brownies, here we go!"

“Woof, woof!” I joined in,

swaying with the crowd.

And then, not even after four minutes had passed by -

when Joe Flacco threw the ball to running back Jerome Ford

who dove past would-be tacklers

and reached across the pylon for a touchdown -

It happened.

All arms shot up - mine too -

and gloved and padded hands began

aiming for each other.

I hit my husband’s, my son’s, my grandson’s,

and then the man in front of me

aimed for mine, and so I hit his,

and then, so, too, his friend’s,

and when I turned ever so slightly,

the young teen girl behind me,

grabbed my mittened paw and shook it,

passionately,

claiming me for one of her own.

And I was.

For three hours more,

even as we - a single wave of brown, of orange and

a little white - flowed from the field and onto the streets,

communal joy abounded.

And then,

near midnight,

as I removed the shirt,

I would rather have not worn,

I couldn’t help but grieve

my loss.

No longer would others

see only themselves in me.

Defined by taste, by style

by preference,

once again,

others would see me as

I think

I want to be seen.