Delving Into My Identity as Gray

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One would think the most difficult and/or challenging part of this class would have been this huge journey I’ve been going on about, but I actually found the most difficult part to be my classmates. I fear sounding like a critical snob, but I was disappointed in the attitude of some regarding the seriousness of the class. Not that I believe it should be an overly serious class, but in a space where everyone is opening up the deepest parts of themselves as writing creatively does, the utmost respect is immensely important and I felt some were unaware or unconcerned. I think I was spoiled, honestly, by my classmates for Creative Non-Fiction Writing last semester. They were incredibly respectful, in my opinion, and they seemed to understand how much gravity writing has. It isn’t just a means to get attention or glory, it’s a very intimate thing, sometimes tied to serious issues or hurts or loves in a person. I realize this class was larger, making the smaller group style impossible, but I still think the level of respect should have been the same. In a word, “naiveté" was the hardest part of this class. Given the depth of my own transformation this semester, I found it difficult at times to handle the aloof, obligatory attitudes of my fellow students. Part of this may be the age difference, I am aware, but this is my honest answer and has been my biggest concern as I felt it stunted all this class could have and should have been. Psychologically speaking, I think it even affected my “performance” throughout this term. Being a newly-recovering perfectionist, I always believe I could have done certain things better. In this class, I wish most that I could have recited my poem more perfectly as I have always been ridiculously meticulous when it comes to memorization. In grade school, I had to memorize twenty-five pages worth of catechism and entire books of the bible. I would always get over 100% due to my ability to not miss a single word, not even “a”s, “an”s, or “the”s. Yet in this class, I faltered and felt uninspired to present my chosen poem to the class. It was meaningful to me and spoke deeply to my situation, yet I knew I couldn’t make the class feel this passion, and I allowed myself to become discouraged. I don’t mean this as excuses for a
lacking recitation, but rather, I’m finally sharing something I was wrestling with. I don’t do particularly well with people I can tell are in a very different place than me when it comes to opening up and digging into a deeper part of myself. Which leads to where I believe I was able to shine in this class, and that’s my writing. I really do feel like, even if the writing doesn’t show it yet, I am only at the start of understanding my full potential, and maybe that skews how I see my work, but I think it shows through. Putting my pieces together for this portfolio, I remembered how I felt putting together my last portfolio and the attitude I had going into it and the progress I was proud of then. I remember being so impressed with my progress, but it’s nothing in comparison to how I feel about my work this time. A big difference is that before, I cared about what grade I was going to receive on it. I know that sounds horribly disrespectful, but I assure you, it’s not meant to be. This term, I obviously want a decent grade, but this work isn’t about that. I didn’t write any of this for anyone. I wrote this for me. I wrote this so I could learn how to live. At the end of this term, I don’t need a grade to tell me how to feel about my work. When I saw the grade I received last semester, I was crushed and felt confused because I thought my progress was fantastic and my writing was better than I had ever let it be before. This year, I know deep in my soul how I feel about my work and the impact it’s had on my life and the dire necessity of it. It’s very much separate from this class, in a way. Unfortunately, I know that my grade won’t reflect that. While I may give myself a hardearned A, I will never get to see a true grade for my creative abilities, as our culture can’t seem to get past its delusional sense of importance in “keeping time”. Creativity doesn’t care about time or attendance. To grade as though it does is a sin possibly greater than not writing at all. All my life, I have longed to be able to be a consistent person, a “dependable” person. Despite my greatest efforts, I have never been able to, and am blessed enough to finally know that it’s not all on me, as it is nearly impossible for someone with Bipolar Disorder to be naturally
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Page 8 and 9: consistent. I am twenty-five years
Page 10 and 11: Poetry Is Poetry is my reprieve A m
Page 12 and 13: “Church" Yourself You wanted a
Page 14 and 15: Home Christmas lights Kitten fur Fl
Page 16 and 17: It Won’t Come Peacefully Everyone
Page 19 and 20: Gin Consciousness Is it that I ask
Page 21 and 22: You rise and achieve whilst still i
Page 23 and 24: Holidays are cold now. No one has f
Page 25 and 26: You don’t even sound like you- yo
Page 27 and 28: Stay What does one say just before
Page 29 and 30: So much beauty. Every ray of sun th
Page 32 and 33: Embrace is a Dangerous Game - a sho
Page 34 and 35: arreling down on us- a tornadic sup
Page 36 and 37: “Aedus,” he said looking at me
Page 38 and 39: embraced him so tightly, I could fe
Page 40 and 41: We piled in the car awkwardly and r
Page 43 and 44: Identity - Part one of Chronicles o
Page 45 and 46: The Fujiwhara Effect - Part two of
Page 47 and 48: It sounds like the time you turned

Delving Into My Identity as Gray

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