Imposter Syndrome

 Somewhere here, 
 we’ve got the trophy,
 proof we’re not “one of them.”
 You know who we mean.
 The guy twirling the sale sign
 out front by the furniture store,
 red arrow pointing the wrong way.
 But what does he care? 
 It’s less than minimum wage.
  
 Or the day laborer waiting for work,
 fingers black from soil and cigarettes,
 jeans barely held up by a cracked belt.
 Certainly we’ve bested that, yes?
 Moved beyond our fathers’ humble 
 lip smacking and smiling,
 mouth open like people with bad teeth
 aren’t supposed to do?
  
 We hide our own mouths behind our hands,
 in case the floss missed a speck of spinach,
 in case the whitening didn’t work,
 in case a drop of spittle hurtles 
 like a meteor into the space between us
 as we mispronounce our ordinals: 
 Third Place and Fourth, unacceptable.
 Fifth doesn’t exist, and unless you’re first,
 don’t bother mentioning in polite company.
  
 This is the shame of inheritance,
 of being born in a no-name hospital,
 raised in a working-poor town,
 reminded in writing, “You can do better.”
 You better do better.
 And we have done better. Right?
  
 There’s a trophy somewhere that says so, 
 a plaque engraved with our worth,
 thin line of cursive 
 (names misspelled, but so what?)
 declaring we’re “better off.”
 
 We’re living in strata where diplomas, 
 degrees, certificates and seals 
 still mean the difference between 
 earning a decent living
 and plummeting.
 “We did what we could for you,” 
 say our elders.
 “We gave you all we had.
 It’s up to you to fly.”
  
 No wonder we can’t tolerate failure.
 No wonder we cling to perfectionism.
 No wonder we hold on so tightly,
 like life depends on our fragile ability
 to hide the “we-might-be-a-fraud,”
 terrified of our own thin skin.
 The world demands we win.
  
 -Katherine Gotthardt