For a long time, I described myself as a writer. That was my identity. It seemed that everything and anything around me could change, but that was the one true thing about me that remained the same. My country of residence changed, and I was still a writer. People were born and died, and I was still a writer. I was a student, a teacher, an employee, a SAHM, unemployed - whatever - and I was still a writer. Friends came and went, boys came and went, and I was still a writer.
I always had something to say.
(Whether it was worth reading or not, that was always up to YOU.)
I always had something to say because I was always doing something, adding some sort of value to society, actively seeking adventures, experiencing new things, worlds, cultures, languages, peoples...
...and then one day, I had nothing to say.
I tried to find my voice, and you can see that in the sporadic dates in which I posted in the past, after 2 years of regular weekly posts. I lost my voice because I lost myself. And it's not that I wasn't doing anything - oh, I was doing plenty. I was creating a human being, I was making bones, ok? My body made BONES. Let that sink in for a while.
And then my life wasn't mine anymore, and though I would have loved (and would still love) to share every detail (because that's what writers do: they write), it was no longer mine alone to share. The #littleBabyHergett stories were amazing (and now there's two of them, so it's double the amazingness), but slowly I realized that they weren't my stories to tell.
Growing up, my mom was a teacher in a school for girls (that has no relevance to the story); those girls were my age, maybe one or two years older. In trying to establish rapport with them, she would share stories about ME. WITHOUT HAVING EVER ASKED ME. Do you know how I found out? I was in the pool one day, and this girl came up to me for whatever reason, and we started talking, and one thing led to the other and she found out whose daughter I was - dude, she freaked the F out. Like, she just went crazy. "OMG I FEEL LIKE I KNOW YOU! I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU! I LOVE YOU!", she yelled at me. And then she yelled at other girls on the other side of the pool, "YOU GUYS! YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS! THIS IS IRENE'S DAUGHTER!"
La hija de Irene.
Irene's daughter. Oh, sorry: Irene's Daughter.
It was a title. I was stripped of my identity and I became this title, like this empty vessel that they filled with the stories my mom had chosen to share with them.
Now, please, don't get me wrong. My mom is AMAZING. She is a badass. She is indescribably fantastic and I love her dearly. I am proud to be her daughter.
But that's not all I want to be. I want to be me (the writer?), the me that has an awesome mom.
So I remembered that every time I wrote a post about either of my two #littleBabyHergetts. And I also remembered saying to a now 15yo, "OMG you're mom writes so much about you, I feel like I know you!" I saw her cringe as I said this, and I myself cringed as the words were sliding down my tongue, leaving my mouth, making my foolishness apparent, nay, OBVIOUS to the world.
I don't know her, regardless of how much her mom wrote about her. Just like those girls didn't know me. (Sidebar: I'm still friends with Priscy after all these years. She got the privilege of getting to know me, the real me, beyond what my mom had chosen to share. Of course I joke: I was the one who got the privilege of knowing her.)
And I would hate for someone to come up to one of my kids and make comments (regardless of how well-intended they are) of things that they thought had been private and be like "I feel like I know you!", because that's super creepy. (Public apology to Emerson for having said that - I really am sorry. I don't know you, but I would LOVE to have the privilege of getting to know YOU.)
It's one thing when we share cute stories with friends and family, but it's a completely different thing when I choose to write stories about other people to post on the world wide web, where (regardless of how many people do in fact read this) they will remain public forever. I follow friends on instragram who document every single moment of their children's lives, and I am so glad to be able to see these kids grow, because in this new global society we are no longer limited to a physical Tribe, but rather open to endless and limitless possibilities for virtual socialization. I'm happy to see them, but I wonder if they are happy to be seen.
That's the reason I disappeared. Well, one of the reasons. I had no stories of my own and didn't feel like the owner of the stories I wanted to tell. So I had nothing to say.
And what do you say, when you have nothing to say?
Nothing.
I said nothing for a really long time (both practically and virtually) and I lost my voice (also practically and virtually). I lost myself. It seemed like I had so many identities, that I identified with none. I felt like I was failing at everything that I was doing, and that anyway I was not doing anything; so I, the perfectionist overachiever, was failing at doing nothing. That is the lowest low there is, if you ask me.
It has taken time, a lot of it; it has taken patience, a lot of it; it has taken love, a LOT of it, both from my friends and family, and from MYSELF, to come to peace with this new me. I once read that "if you want to be a writer, all you have to do it write" - and that hit hard, because that IS what I want(ed) to be, and that is exactly what I was NOT doing. I'm super adamant about people not calling me a poet, because I haven't been a poet in over two decades; I'm ok with being called La Literata, because I have two BAs and one MA to support that claim. But can I call myself a writer if I don't write? And if I'm not a writer, what am I, then?
I once was a writer - I know that. I have the texts to prove it. But who am I now?
I have so many stories to tell, and so many of them are SO worth reading. And I am excited to be able to be a writer again- even if I never did stop being a writer.
I always had something to say.
(Whether it was worth reading or not, that was always up to YOU.)
I always had something to say because I was always doing something, adding some sort of value to society, actively seeking adventures, experiencing new things, worlds, cultures, languages, peoples...
...and then one day, I had nothing to say.
I tried to find my voice, and you can see that in the sporadic dates in which I posted in the past, after 2 years of regular weekly posts. I lost my voice because I lost myself. And it's not that I wasn't doing anything - oh, I was doing plenty. I was creating a human being, I was making bones, ok? My body made BONES. Let that sink in for a while.
And then my life wasn't mine anymore, and though I would have loved (and would still love) to share every detail (because that's what writers do: they write), it was no longer mine alone to share. The #littleBabyHergett stories were amazing (and now there's two of them, so it's double the amazingness), but slowly I realized that they weren't my stories to tell.
Growing up, my mom was a teacher in a school for girls (that has no relevance to the story); those girls were my age, maybe one or two years older. In trying to establish rapport with them, she would share stories about ME. WITHOUT HAVING EVER ASKED ME. Do you know how I found out? I was in the pool one day, and this girl came up to me for whatever reason, and we started talking, and one thing led to the other and she found out whose daughter I was - dude, she freaked the F out. Like, she just went crazy. "OMG I FEEL LIKE I KNOW YOU! I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU! I LOVE YOU!", she yelled at me. And then she yelled at other girls on the other side of the pool, "YOU GUYS! YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS! THIS IS IRENE'S DAUGHTER!"
La hija de Irene.
Irene's daughter. Oh, sorry: Irene's Daughter.
It was a title. I was stripped of my identity and I became this title, like this empty vessel that they filled with the stories my mom had chosen to share with them.
Now, please, don't get me wrong. My mom is AMAZING. She is a badass. She is indescribably fantastic and I love her dearly. I am proud to be her daughter.
But that's not all I want to be. I want to be me (the writer?), the me that has an awesome mom.
So I remembered that every time I wrote a post about either of my two #littleBabyHergetts. And I also remembered saying to a now 15yo, "OMG you're mom writes so much about you, I feel like I know you!" I saw her cringe as I said this, and I myself cringed as the words were sliding down my tongue, leaving my mouth, making my foolishness apparent, nay, OBVIOUS to the world.
I don't know her, regardless of how much her mom wrote about her. Just like those girls didn't know me. (Sidebar: I'm still friends with Priscy after all these years. She got the privilege of getting to know me, the real me, beyond what my mom had chosen to share. Of course I joke: I was the one who got the privilege of knowing her.)
And I would hate for someone to come up to one of my kids and make comments (regardless of how well-intended they are) of things that they thought had been private and be like "I feel like I know you!", because that's super creepy. (Public apology to Emerson for having said that - I really am sorry. I don't know you, but I would LOVE to have the privilege of getting to know YOU.)
It's one thing when we share cute stories with friends and family, but it's a completely different thing when I choose to write stories about other people to post on the world wide web, where (regardless of how many people do in fact read this) they will remain public forever. I follow friends on instragram who document every single moment of their children's lives, and I am so glad to be able to see these kids grow, because in this new global society we are no longer limited to a physical Tribe, but rather open to endless and limitless possibilities for virtual socialization. I'm happy to see them, but I wonder if they are happy to be seen.
That's the reason I disappeared. Well, one of the reasons. I had no stories of my own and didn't feel like the owner of the stories I wanted to tell. So I had nothing to say.
And what do you say, when you have nothing to say?
Nothing.
I said nothing for a really long time (both practically and virtually) and I lost my voice (also practically and virtually). I lost myself. It seemed like I had so many identities, that I identified with none. I felt like I was failing at everything that I was doing, and that anyway I was not doing anything; so I, the perfectionist overachiever, was failing at doing nothing. That is the lowest low there is, if you ask me.
It has taken time, a lot of it; it has taken patience, a lot of it; it has taken love, a LOT of it, both from my friends and family, and from MYSELF, to come to peace with this new me. I once read that "if you want to be a writer, all you have to do it write" - and that hit hard, because that IS what I want(ed) to be, and that is exactly what I was NOT doing. I'm super adamant about people not calling me a poet, because I haven't been a poet in over two decades; I'm ok with being called La Literata, because I have two BAs and one MA to support that claim. But can I call myself a writer if I don't write? And if I'm not a writer, what am I, then?
I once was a writer - I know that. I have the texts to prove it. But who am I now?
I have so many stories to tell, and so many of them are SO worth reading. And I am excited to be able to be a writer again- even if I never did stop being a writer.
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