I wanted to include a few examples of the student writing that came out of the identity unit. the writing workshops produced a wide range of pieces, both in terms of student skill level and genre. with their permission (and under their chosen pseudonyms), i included a sample of each student’s writing in the print version of the project. here, i’ve included three pieces that stood out to me: a poem on racial identity and self-determination, a detailed narrative on a gendered play experience, and a portrait of home, distant and indelible.
…because apparently this show’s long enough for two intermissions. (slash it turns out i have a life outside the internet and actually think more about posting shit than managing to get on here and do it for real….)
anywho. whew. thank the fucking lord i don’t believe in that xmas et al are over. the second half of winter break (because of course my life schedule will forever be dictated by school calendars…) was far better than the first, and i even managed to have a new years eve that didn’t leave me with the seemingly requisite sense of anticlimax and all-consuming cynicism.
while i spent far less time reading, sleeping, and generally organizing my shit over break than i wanted to, i did manage to see this video that pretty much made my life:
and as i mentioned, i’ve been giving some thought to future posts. so, dear reader, i’ll share a few of those with you now, ya know, just to keep the five of you interested. some potential upcoming topics include (but are not limited to):
–a love letter to hari kondabolu (because clearly his prominence in my comedy links section isn’t enough).
–on pronouns, assumptions, and speaking the fuck up
–when will white people stop telling me how great avatar is? see this first. i know that shit’s old news and maybe it doesn’t need its own post, but take enough craigslist rides with white people and see how quickly small talk turns into OMGavatarentironmentalismWeee!
–how i came to my present understanding/experience of the messy list of identities that make up the subheading of this blog
–and finally, i hope to start writing about the current work i am doing in education and with queer youth, which ostensibly was one of the main reasons i created this space in the first place.
before actually creating new content, however, (of which i already have soooomuch, naturally), i will probably throw up the excerpts from the second part of my senior project — the lesson plans on socially constructed identity and narrative accounts of how my curriculum was received. mostly i just want to stop staring at them on my desktop and compulsively adding minor edits… as well as ya know, make a potential educational resource available. or whatever.
He never told me outright, but I knew my father was uncomfortable with the doll. I had picked her as a reward for something – I’m not sure what at this point – but my mom had taken me to the store to pick out a toy. I was five years old, and she was one of the few African-American Barbies in the store, with long dark hair and a deep purple dress made of something like velvet. Maybe that was why I picked her; she stood out from the uniform mass of white plastic lining the shelves. She was different.
Even then, at five years old, I knew the doll was an unusual pick. Certainly, my male friends would not have made the same selection. But I was bored with my Star Wars action figures and Hot Wheels cars. I wanted something new.
My mother didn’t remark on the doll directly. “Are you sure?” was all she asked as I brought the box to the checkout counter.
When I got home, I spent hours playing with her alongside my other toys. She had a handbag to match her dress, both of that same deep purple that looked as soft as it felt. The dress was fastened at the back with a strip of Velcro which would peel off with a satisfying “C-h-h-r-r-i-i-i-i-i-p” if I ever wanted to change her clothes.
Neither of my parents spoke to me about it, but I was aware of the stir I had caused. The first night I had the doll, the floorboards of my second floor bedroom trembled with raised voices. Though I couldn’t make out most of it, the phrase “For Christ’s sake Jim, it’s a doll!” was unmistakable.
