What words define you?
This is a prompt from my Write Yourself August Challenge. As we wrap up the month, I am reflecting on how many people participated in this and it fills my heart to know others were able to find time for themselves through writing. These prompts are meant to allow reflection and introspection, and as I’ve participated along with others, it has opened my eyes even more to the power of writing. Even though I created the challenge with that very thing in mind, I have still been so pleasantly surprised with the power of it. Next month, a more in-depth version of this challenge will be available in the form of a year-long journal.
August 29: What words define you?
Romantic.
Sister.
Writer.
Teacher.
Motherhood.
Appalachian.
I used to balk at the idea of being defined any certain way. I used to think that if I was placed in a box, I could never escape. But now, I don’t really feel that way anymore. I feel more free to embrace the various identities I can have all at once. We can be multifaceted, after all. Humans are not simply one thing. They never have been. Why would I be any different? I’m just the same as anyone else.
I used to think I shouldn’t consider myself a romantic. That was weak and silly and too feminine. If I wanted to be a “cool girl,” I must act cool when someone did something that hurt me or disappointed me or told me that what I thought we had—friendship or flirtation—was wrong. Now, I have realized, I like romance. I like grand gestures. And I want to be wooed, dammit. I want friendships that go out of their way for each other. I want my marriage to be full of love and laughter and silliness and deep conversations and all the things that make two people choose each other over and over again. And dates and romantic getaways and outings to the movies. And I want love letters. Always. Forever. Kyle and I write to each other in this little notebook — we have done this for years — and sporadically leave it for one another. I owe him a letter, actually.
I used to think that being a sister was a job, not an identity. I used to think it was just part of my application, a box to check, a category. Siblings? Yes. Two. The eldest. Being a sister meant I was in charge (in my head, of course) and having siblings meant I had people to boss around. This is a running joke, and while I was probably a big ol’ bitch to my siblings a lot of the time, I really don’t ever remember thinking of myself as anything but theirs. They were mine and we would never be separated. Being a sister is not a job, it is an identity. It was, and is, like being part of an exclusive club. Party of three. Me, Taylor, Casey. The end. No one else allowed. And now, as an adult, I still very much see being a sister as that. They are mine. I must protect them. And at the same time, I have a sisterhood of girlfriends that hold me up when I can’t hold myself up, while I am raising two girls — sisters — and it is my greatest gift of life. To be a sister and raise sisters? It’s more than I deserve.
I used to think I couldn’t call myself a writer if I didn’t make money from writing. That is—as I have come to realize—horseshit. So here we are. I’m a writer. I will live and die one, and whether I make a single cent is irrelevant. I write to live. I write to breathe. I write to listen. It is who I am.
I used to think that being a teacher meant years of experience and decades of students behind me. But now I know, even if I don’t make it to 20 or 30 years of teaching like so many do, I will have been a teacher in my heart. I’m not sure I believe in having one specific calling in life, but one of mine is definitely teaching. It is a thankless job, as many will tell you, but in the grand scheme of life, there will be little seeds that you planted along the way that grow into full bloom. Knowing I’m doing that — not with grammar and literature but with love and understanding and inspiration — is what makes me so proud to call myself a teacher.
I used to think that I could not be defined by motherhood. I thought “when I have kids, I won’t let go of who I am.” And I haven’t totally, but there is no way to become a mother and remain who you were. You just can’t. The important parts of myself — being a writer and a partner to my husband and a teacher and a member of a giant Appalachian family — will always be there. But the other parts, the parts that were selfish and calculating and defensive, those parts had to go. There was no longer any room for them. Sure, they show their heads every once in a while, but the part of me that moves mountains, that shoves everything else aside, that makes sure everyone knows what comes first, is the part that spells out “mother.”
The other half of this word—hood—is the part that bonds me with other women, specifically my friends who are mothers. When my friends were having kids before I did, I had no fucking clue what they were going through. When Daisy was born, I went on an apology tour. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.” And now, the “hood” part of this word that defines me is made up of the fiercest, strongest, most beautiful women I could ever imagine into existence. Being in motherhood together with others is the only way to survive it.
I used to feel neutrally about being from West Virginia. Then I realized so many poke fun of people like me, people from places like this. When I moved to different cities or traveled, I was met with a resounding “Where are you from?!” As most people from this area have experienced, people like to box us in, call us names, decide who we are before we have a chance to show them. Being Appalachian is one of my greatest prides. I will not hesitate to educate you on why stereotypes exist or what they really mean. I will not stop for one minute before explaining to you the origin of the word redneck. I will interrupt you to tell you that West Virginia is nowhere near Richmond, and I will never, ever feel ashamed from being from here. This mentality, I know, is because I’m Appalachian. We are raised to defend, because we have had to defend ourselves so often. Being Appalachian is a huge part of my identity; perhaps even all of it. It colors everything I do from writing to mothering to cooking to speaking. It is everything.