The sky’s tummy has been grumbling all day. The latest crack was too loud and too close, sending Evelyn, Dave, and me inside from the patio. It’s the laziest kind of Sunday—one where my eyes linger on downed limbs and branches, on the eroding bank beside the pool. That? That’s future Jaclynn’s problem to clean up. Today’s Jaclynn? She’s a bum.
I hesitated to even use the word bum. Is it outdated? Insensitive? By calling myself a bum—meaning lazy, unmotivated—am I unintentionally disparaging people who live without homes, who grind through daily to-dos with less than I could ever fathom? That’s not my intention. But I wonder if intention is enough.
I remember, when designing our house, I resisted calling the main bedroom the master, knowing it was rooted in slave times. But after hearing the builder, the electrician, and the plumber use it repeatedly, by the end of the first month, I was parroting it too. It’s like I need to sign an NDA before saying these things out loud—the fear of being canceled is real.
There’s a dogfight inside me. One dog wants to get it right—learned, understanding, careful. She edits on the fly, swaps “unhoused” for “homeless,” remembers the latest vocabulary for respect. The other dog shrugs, says screw it. Be yourself. Say what you say and let the chips fall.
Some days, the peacekeeper dog wins. I soften my voice, nod even when I disagree, and overthink a comment before I’ve even said it. Other days, the rebel dog howls a little louder. I say the thing, let the discomfort hang. Neither path feels totally right—or totally wrong.
I fear being misunderstood.
The first time I got in real trouble, I was maybe six. Our all-black cat leapt onto the kids’ table in the living room. I called him a bastard. In my mind, it was no different than calling him a bugger. I’d heard the word tossed around—sharp, emotional—but it had no claws to me. I can’t recall who reprimanded me, only that I was in Big Trouble. And that it didn’t feel fair.
Even now, there’s a tape that plays: “That’s still not enough, Jaclynn. You must do better.” And the fear in me grows. I’m not enough. I’ll forever fall short. Nothing I do matters. I go to that loathing depth so quickly, don’t I?
I don’t say retard anymore, even though it’s all I ever called my brother when we were kids. I will say it once every blue moon to my closest people—and even then, it’s reserved for the spike-the-ball, can’t-breathe-laughing, perfectly landed joke moments. I know that’s complicated. But I’ve always fancied myself a comedian in another life. Sometimes I watch myself from the inside—delivering a line, slapping my own leg, choking on air at how funny it is.
And look, you’ve seen stand-up. You’ve seen how they walk the line. They don’t just flirt with the edges—they salsa right across them. For the release. For the yes. And I don’t want to kill that off. I won’t.
I’m trying to live somewhere in the middle. Care deeply. Speak freely. Ask questions. Stay humble. And also—laugh my ass off.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 