Maybe I Am Not Me: Reconstructing Self for Uncertain Times

Prompt No. 61: bell hooks, Art, and Identity

I have been “me” for quite some time, but recently I have grown rather uninterested in her. Instead, I have turned my attention to a much older version I envisioned as a teenager. Back then I felt like an artist without a discipline. I listened to electronic and trip-hop, flipped through every issue of i-D and The Face I could get my hands on, and read the most obscure poetry I could find. And while I had written poetry since first grade, no one other than my mom supported it. My friends were lauded at school for their musical prowess and eye for composition, but I was on my own in my creative pursuits, and as such, felt like an outsider communing in the few creative spaces that existed. I certainly did not present myself as some sort of artist. Because Black parents believed children should not wear black clothing, I did not have access to anything particularly brooding. Instead, I wore a sparkly midnight navy polish from Delia’s. Between biting my nails and lacking a steady hand, the results were satisfactorily grunge.