My mother says WASP 
to mean the type of gal who jumps
out of planes, takes 
long walks on terrain so 
difficult, pricy boots are required, plus 
a mix of nuts
and dried fruit labeled “trail mix” 
to indicate how the delicacy 
(not too sweet) was earned.

My sister’s husband, a Greek,
whose mother survived starvation
when Nazis burned fishing boats
and fields and to live she ate rats
and carob pods the Nazis didn’t know 
were food, he was a lenient father 
who drew the line at sleepovers:
I built you a bedroom
you have a bed
for safe sleeping

As an adult, my father never wore
sneakers or jeans. He trekked many
Appalachian trails over in polished shoes,
carrying food across restaurant floors, 
so his kids could earn a living in 
chairs, sitting still.

“We Are Not a Camping Family,”
my brother said this weekend, 
“or, what’s it called? Hiking. Yeah.” 
He couldn’t remember the word.
He says he’s bought a tent,
but it’s for parties, for rest--
not really a tent but a pavilion, 
a marquee.

These are people,
my mother, my brother-in-law,
my father, my brother,
whose great great great
great grandparents
never owned 
people

and maybe that’s why
they don’t jump off cliffs,
carry oxygen tanks up 
Everest, or prostrate themselves
intents, in penance,
to sleep on cold earth,
with the knot 
of a tree root 
digging into their backs
all night, persistent
as the memory
of a slavecatcher
taking back 
what he owns.

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