I’m not an atheist; that’s the first thing. Though I certainly don’t (or, at most, don’t certainly) believe in G-d. I’m not religious, but try finding a non-white shirt in my closet.
I’m not culturally Jewish; I can’t stand kugel, herring, or kishke, Israel bothers me, and I do not live every day with the inheritance of the holocaust like a millstone around my neck.
I’m not South African, though that’s where I was born; I’m not American since they haven’t heard of Asterix and, in a display of new-world savagery, they drink their tea milkless. My accent adapts to its surroundings.
I’m not cool; I cry at movies. Scratch that, I’ve cried at comedies. I can’t be uncool either; when I see sincere people my eyes roll so hard I almost lose my balance; when I see people rolling their eyes at sincere people I want to deck them.
I’m not funny; I never shot a moose.
I’m not an introvert if the number of times I’ve been told to shut up is any measure, but being social makes me feel hollow as an empty school building.
I’m not a good person; instead of driving someone to the airport I’ll tell them I’m busy and then take a nap. Then for that casual acquaintance’s birthday I’ll take them to Disney World.
“I touch no one and no one touches me.”
I’m not even properly overweight.
Who am I?
I don’t know, but something is left over, and from there, the words emerge.