An Introduction: Deanna

To introduce myself, I'm using an excerpt from an essay I wrote for my AP Literature final, loosely based on/inspired by Langston Hughes' "A Theme for English B"; but, as the following says, please note that all of this but the history is impermanent and extremely likely to change very, very soon.

This weekend, I will graduate, a year early, among 150 strangers in identical gowns. This will be my first-ever “accomplishment”; this will be me rebelling against my own former rebellion.

I love old things, disdain most new. I dream of a fairy-tale cottage of brick and hardwood, filled with books and covered in vines. I long for the glamour and chivalry of days gone by; I long for the change and equality that can only exist in days yet to come. I am romantic deep inside but am loath to let it out; I am a feminist, a liberal, an activist without the courage (yet) to act.

I am confused: my life is at a hinge; I see and can agree with both sides of most every argument; my personality is layered with contradictions and indecision. My beliefs are in constant flux; I am an agnostic and I envy those who have faith.

I am full of hatred and I hate it; full of anger and it makes me angry. I want the world to be beautiful and I want to be beautiful within it; I want to make things better and make myself better; I don’t want to be a casualty of society’s cruelty. I want people to be treated equally and for everyone to let others alone to have their own beliefs; I want chivalry and men to act like gentlemen.

 I have to constantly remind myself to cut others a break, to breathe, to think, to sympathize, to imagine what they might be going through, to never place myself and my struggles against anyone else’s, to never compare. I often dislike myself: I want to be thinner – no, curvier; more open-minded ; smarter – no, geniuses always seem miserable, please, let me be dull; more interesting – or should I stick with being myself and wait for people who accept it? Most of my struggles are myself-made, existing, most likely, only in my mind; I am terrified, of being average, of being common, of being alone, of being unremembered, of being unhappy, of failing.

I often dislike everyone else, for reasons I can’t quite quantify. I have all-too-frequent bouts of cynicism, pessimism, and bitterness with no basis in reality or history.

I love to run, both literally and figuratively. I love the feel of the ground beneath my feet, I love escaping one place to the unknowns and dream-knowns of another; staying in one place for too long makes me restless; even the last three years in this same school and this same place have made me feel trapped. The first part of any solution I think of is a change of scenery. I love the ocean but fear its depths; I adore the sky but fear its heights.

I love books. I love them more than people; if I don’t like what they say, it’s much simpler to close them. Since childhood the former has been my escape from the latter, a ship to sail to sunnier shores. My dream is to write them, to pass onto others what they have done for me.

I like giving gifts and receiving them, but I dislike opening them in front of the givers or having mine opened in front of me. I still read the comic section rather than the news in the paper. I like to bake and to cook and to eat, but I can’t just eat; I need a book or a show with my meal. I like to hear some sort of (at least semi-) human voice as I go to sleep, whether it be a movie or a TV show or the mechanical text-to-speech function on my Kindle. I fall in love at the drop of a hat, but I refuse to ever be first to say so. I love trees, evergreens ever so slightly less so. I drink only cold clear water and hot black coffee except for special occasions. Stuffy rooms and crew-neck shirts make me claustrophobic.

I dream more than I live: I look at pictures of dramatic cliffs and stunning shores, crumbling castles and stained-glass windows; I long for beautiful things but am ever afraid to reach for them. I long to be like the heroines of books but fear to take the first step or say the first word.

I struggle with writing “a truthful page” about myself – I recently look a philosophy class, and it introduced too many different versions of truth for me to be certain which is the truth; and, as said before, so many parts of me are in flux and unset, even I don’t truly know myself. How, then, can I possibly write the truth? I can only hope the disorganized nature of these sentences at least serves as a reflection of the similar nature of my personality.