Coming back from dropping Nora off at school I see a big brown stuffed recliner out in the rain on twelfth street. A sign is taped on it, 
“Allah is the only legitimizer.” I chuckle to myself and imagine Allah, sighing, “How many times have I said not to shop at the Brick? The furniture breaks in a year and a day, and public litter is so not cool.” I muse over a sign I might add, “Will Allah also take this chair to the dump?”
Legitimate. What a powerful word. Don’t we all want to be the real deal. Interesting the things that “officially” legitimize me: my citizenship, my baptism, my union affiliations, my marriage license, my land title, my publications, my awards. Then there are the moments that are not official but legitimized me to myself: some particular prayers. Weekends at the farm and feeling like I belonged to a family, when Rene threw me a surprise birthday party for my 20th and all of Rosebud showed up. The time Alex Varty came out to see a bunch of no namers do an unlikely show called Holy Mo and gave it a rave review. My child saying she would not want to have any other mother, not even a magical fairy one. Driving to Palazzo san Gervasio to see the Frangione/Grieco family there and to be enthusiastically and lovingly welcomed by all the relatives and to hear they knew all about me and my sister because we were so google-able. The times a person has stopped me on the street to say one of my plays changed their life. The day the finest man I’ve ever met knelt down in a garden to ask me to spend the rest of my life with him.
Maybe the true legitimizer is love. I suspect Allah may agree. Give or take a recliner.
