Who Do You Think You Are?

When I was a little girl and I backtalked my mother she would always ask me, “Little girl. . .who do you think you are?”

She meant that I was getting a bit too big for my britches. It always made me angry when she asked me that. It made me feel like I was somehow diminished as a person. Like I didn’t matter or I didn’t have a right to stand up for myself.

As soon as she would turn her back or leave the room I would silently mouth the words, “I’m Tanya Michelle. . .who do you think YOU are??” I'm sure she probably heard me, and like every mother, laughed all the way out of the room.

As I work towards simplifying my life and creating space for the sacred to work in me I’ve gone back to this question from my mother. “Little girl. . .who do you think you are?” but this time in a much more gentle way.

Who am I? What is true about me? What do I know of my own truth? What does God know about me?

When all of the noise finally calms down all that is left is what theologians and ancient mystics would call spiritual poverty – the essence being that, at some point in our lives, you and I really own who we are. We own up to our shortcomings, our mistakes, our missteps and our out and out rebellions.

We stop pretending and covering up. We stop lying and putting on a good face for everyone to see. We tell the truth about our lives and we ask for help. We ask for forgiveness, not just from those we have hurt, but from our Creator and Sustainer.

Spiritual poverty is getting comfortable in our skin. It’s taking a deep breath and letting go.

Spiritual poverty is learning to live in reality.

It was in early September of 2002 that I finally had the courage to force my parents to acknowledge my sexual orientation. I had lived with the same woman for the previous 17 years and she had never accompanied me to a family Christmas. My family never asked about her. When I was home we never talked about anything more profound than the weather for fear the conversation would lead to a place of discomfort – both for them and for me.

Forcing the issue with them was horrible. Of all the ways it could have turned out as I imagined the scene beforehand, it was worse. There was anger and shouting. There were threats and tears.

We haven’t spoken since.

All I wanted was to tell the truth. My truth.

In many ways it was the worst day of my life. Yet, in the miraculous way that life and the sacred works, it was also the best day of my life. I could have run all the way from Cincinnati to Toledo that late summer afternoon, I felt so light and free.

Since then, I’ve been passionate about seeking and telling truth. I’ve been passionate about learning to live in reality, not in the fiction that we and others create to impress. I’ve tried my best to cultivate spiritual poverty and accept my truth and others’ truth so that I can live in humbleness and peace.

One of the things that has bothered my all my life are the circumstances surrounding my birth. I’ve written about it before. I don’t know why I’m bothered by it, but I don't think I need to apologize for wanting to know the truth.

Now I know. I contacted the Tennessee Department of Vital Records and they sent me this Marriage Certificate dated September 3, 1964 – six months and twelve days before the day of my birth.


Do I feel better since I know the truth? Yes. Do I care that my parents created me before they were married? Hell no.

I mostly feel sad that they felt as though they had to hide something so simple and commonplace. I feel saddened by the burden that carrying this around must have been for them. I feel sad that they obviously felt shame when none was necessary.

But the irony of the whole situation isn’t lost on me. My parents walked away when I spoke my truth. I won’t. I wait. And now I know at least a little piece of their truth.

“Little girl. . .who do you think you are?” I can answer it a bit more now.

I am the imperfect daughter of imperfect people – all of us created, redeemed and sustained by a loving God.