Billy Gray

Biography

Writing has always been my personal outlet to get through my thoughts that would otherwise drive me crazy. I write not to offend anyone but it's the process that leads me to understand the situations that I live through as well as the emotions that come along with them. Poetry is my go to writing, for me it comes naturally. I don't need to get far professionally with my work- to me that only a small portion of being "grayt" I just want to be heard.

Samples

Sticky Like Glue 02/11/16 First name Taylor. Last name Gray. Pronounced stuck together with scotch tape, shameful substitute of glue. Middle school coach started this trend. On the court her voice an echoing TaylorGray. As I transferred from an awkward brace face four eyed preteen the scotch tape held strong through out high school. When it comes to nick names I am cursed. Picking them up like a tourist collecting shells on the beach. Peers think it's funny to screech; BJ, Ling- Ling, wheezy. Cards laid on the table these names come too easy. A stamp as apparent as a piece of paper on my forehead I am labeled numerous names. What comes out of these foreign mouths I am to blame. Committing crimes to this society that aren't in the law. At least I have my sanity to fall back on. Am I supposed to brag? Setting at a lunch table Pampered with these identities, Juggling them all, an opening act in this circus. Come on lend me a hand My tape is loosing its stickiness Without it I can't keep this pose. "Taylor Gray you can do this," I am told. Raising my hand, I have to ask them all. Is my name just a roll of the tongue? Foreshadowing my future fame, celebrities are called by their full names. Or is this an overall scold on my character? Dammit I fold. Almost Everything, but Still Nothing. By Billy Gray In the 1800's my ancestors were not taken from their villages and brought to America to become property to the White man. Instead they were in Germany and Japan, farming for themselves. In the 1900's my great grandfathers were fighting our wars, seeking freedom and justice. One Freeing those in concentration camps, later braking his bones in a drunken car crash. The other meeting a Japanese woman that he would be married to for the next 60 years. Both had their flaws, conflicted with their childhood repugnance but trusting those who fought next to them. Calling African Americans their brothers. In the 70s my grandma sat in her high school class room, legs propped on the chair. Twirling the long black curls she got from her own mother. Smacking her chops, enjoying the gum a little to much. Her best friend sat next to her. Her only friend. See, when you are the only Asian girl and the only black girl in the school you have to stick together. Fire has to run through your veins, cause in this small white town your going to have to fight for your place. My grandma and her best friend pulled a prank, threw a fire work in the school bathroom and got expelled. Fast forward 15 years later, My mama walks into the same school. Her yellow skin next to Shawnas brown is history repeating itself all over again. "I know who you are, and I know who your mothers are," said every teacher they had. Reputation chose by their young mothers and the odd coloring of their skin. Track was my mom sport, distance. Insults didn’t out run her, boy or girl, you better hide because you aren't going to get away. Like mother like daughter she got pregnant at 17, but she finished her education. Later, to watch a friend get shot in her home fleeing to Florida cause they couldn’t find the guilty. The streets I played on were not loud. Gangs weren't a constant threat when I was at the basketball court. It wasn’t the hood. Coloring of my skin doesn’t get me pulled over. A natural tan that matches sand on the Florida Beaches. Small talk always leads to what I am. Green eyed, light but not white. Swamp wasn’t the ghetto, most houses were nice. We arn't on the radar for ballers getting shot, kids getting robbed. But I went to sleep every night sense I was 6 years old With out an 'I love you' from my father. Innocence stolen from me as I watched sores sink into my stepdads face. Pressing my hands over my ears waiting for the shouting to stop. Fed my brothers when Ma was at work and her husband was crashing from that three day binge. Lost to many friends, falling into the wrong parties and playing with guns Cool with the plug, your stupid if you can’t smell the snitch down the road. Struggled with where I fit in, searching for my clique. I set in a hall way in between two rooms. To the left I see my Japanese culture sewing and speaking their native tongue. Their DNA intertwined inside of me but I don’t exist in their lives. I am to American for them. To my right I hear white folk, holding their white mocha frapuccinos'. Swinging their pony tail as they laugh at everyone they know. My features can almost hide in their crowd. If I was a few shades lighter and my eyes didn’t slant so much. I am to weird for them. I belong to both yet they slam the door in my face. I hear the lock twist. Left in this hallway, another reject Mutt. Hill-Jap. Nazi- Komakazi. Chink. Cracker. White trash. Dyke. Whore. Punk. Take any of these labels and plug them into the blank Taylor Gray is a... My reputation is no longer based on my actions. Holding the door open for old ladies. Working my way to captain on my basketball team. Honored with the MVP award. Twice. Coming to my mom when my friend needs a place to stay. Working 30 hours a week, saving for my education. Handling these bills that aren't even mine. The first in my family to leave for college, avoiding becoming a mother before a high school graduate. Nope no body see's any of that. No one, to my coaches I was lazy, doing good enough but holding back. "there's a block in your head." My friends and peers that know me still question my sexuality, "there's no way you dress like that and can be straight." "your style is to vivid for you to like guys." "yo boy or girl?" Best part about this is that some of these guys that make these remarks know for a fact that these statements are not true. Girls that don’t know me or are jealous of me think I'm fucking every guy they see me with, "she sleeps with a lot of guys." My blood, family who are suppose to accept me, "your so pretty, take out your piercing, cover your tattoos and change your clothes." So what am I suppose to think when I look in the mirror? My short hair that still falls in my face. The art that covers this odd skin tone. Clothes that are cute but edgy, always have a jacket, some may be offended by your torso. Running in place trying to slim my waist, "all gut no butt Hun." If I change I am falling into conformity, loosing to society. Staying true to myself means being lost, held at arms length. Never being accepted. But Ill have something to write about. My life will keep me on my toes. Those boys will regret making fun of me. When their girls loose their looks, Ill still be funny. Girls will be pregnant while I travel the world. My family will ask for money when I make it in this career. I will defeat all these negative words I have endured.

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