true dat.

I'm writing an about page for this little blog. It's proven hard to do, what with a constantly nursing baby on my boppy and one-handed typing off to the side. But really, I can't blame sweet Rowan. The truth is I was feeling stuck. Suddenly I'm forcing myself to define my blog (+ myself). But I don't like being pigeon-holed! So much so that: during an icebreaker in college one of my professors had each student describe herself in one word. Absurd! Little rebel me, I decided to sneak an extra word in: pigeon-holed. 

{let's fly away}

Anyway, it reminds me of a conversation I had with Claire about helping creative writing students find their voice. Langston Hughes' poem "Theme for English B" popped into my head. And it seems so apropos for me now. The moral of this little (non)story is to be true. 

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

      Go home and write

      a page tonight.

      And let that page come out of you—

      Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.   

I went to school there, then Durham, then here   

to this college on the hill above Harlem.   

I am the only colored student in my class.   

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,   

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,   

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,   

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator   

up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me   

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you.

hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.   

(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.   

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.   

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.

I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like

the same things other folks like who are other races.   

So will my page be colored that I write?   

Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

a part of you, instructor.

You are white—

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That’s American.

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.   

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that’s true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me—

although you’re older—and white—

and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Do you have an About page? 

Did you "define" your blog there? 

How was that experience?

Wishing you a beautiful, springy Easter + weekend.