Announcing

The badge swung against my chest

all day.

Back and forth.

Bounce bounce bounce.

Like I was announcing myself

with every step.

Like the plastic rectangle

was screaming

that I was new here,

that I didn't belong yet,

that everyone could see

I was still learning the routes,

still reading the names on the doors,

still trying to figure out

where to sit at lunch.

I kept tucking it under my shirt.

It kept falling out.

The lanyard wouldn't cooperate.

The badge kept swinging.

By three o'clock I stopped trying.

Let it bounce.

Let it announce.

There's something about wearing

something that moves,

that you can't control,

that declares you

without your permission.

The lanyard was my job telling the building

that I was temporary,

that I was still being decided about,

that my presence here

wasn't permanent yet.

Or maybe it was just a lanyard.

But when I left at five

I could still feel the weight

of where it had been,

the shape of the badge

pressed into my chest

like proof that I existed here,

like proof that I'd been announced,

whether I wanted to be or not.