Some are Just Lost

I picked up the worn copy of what would become my favorite book, not knowing yet the relationship we would have. I read the first page, and by page two knew that this was love. Page seven had me in wonder, page eighty in awe, and page one twenty in tears. I closed it at midnight and marveled it until dawn. I was twelve, and the first chapter book I had ever read was J.R.R. Tolkien’s, The Hobbit.

At fourteen I was required to read it for class and sat mindlessly listening to other readers pick it apart. I knew with surety that their opinions were wrong. This was my book. My world. Only known to me. The hills I had traversed with Bilbo Baggins, the grief that I had mourned, how had so few people seen the journey they traveled? Or had they traveled it? I was judgmental and afraid. I was fourteen, and the only comfort I had was J.R.R Tolkien’s The Hobbit.

At eighteen I watched the old book whither on my mother’s shelf, holding a class schedule in my hand that I wasn’t sure what to do with. Literature looked fun, but I was convinced that math and science were for me. I was convinced that nursing was the only degree. Literature and Culture made nothing in a world full of engineers. I was eighteen and feeling worthless in the presence of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit.

Sometime, after I turned twenty, I was writing with fervor. Twenty pages in. Thirty pages in. I didn’t like what I was writing. I didn’t even enjoy writing it. My joints ached, I had a forming migraine. I was hungry, I was tired. Still, I was writing. Peter Jackson’s interpretation of the Two Towers played so numbly in the background that I missed Frodo’s screams as the ring tortured him until he fell. A voice in the tips of my fingers whispered, “We must keep going.” I was twenty, and I did not yet own my own copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit.

When I was still a child learning how to be twenty, I broke and gave into writing. I had been chasing nursing until even my grades were bowing to my own incompetence and unwillingness to continue down the path. I wrote a long, incoherent piece of nonsense to turn in to a Creative Writing class I was taking for “fun.”

A month later, I was reading it in front of a group of people.

A day after that, I was majoring in writing.

A day after that, I was writing. Writing, and writing. Remembering stories that had gotten me through. Remembering hope that had pushed me to today. Remembering escapes and letting them become new worlds in my mind. I hadn’t realized how long I had been majoring in writing, before it took over me like a chocolate éclair consumes its creamy filling.

A year after that, I was twenty-one, finally, holding my own copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit.

To See Yourself

I’ve always felt slightly different from other people, but I could never put my finger on what exactly it was that made me different. None of my friends seemed to feel the same way I did about certain things; my feelings weren’t portrayed by characters in the movies and shows I watched, and never appeared in the books I read. I assumed I was some weird anomaly and I would have to deal with feeling like I was alone on the subject for the rest of my life.

I was never able to understand my feelings before I found my place. I had no representation to compare myself to and help me navigate the rocky waters of understanding my sexuality. The young adult books I read dealt heavily with romance; whenever there were mentions of a character that didn’t fit the norm of sexual attraction they were disregarded and labeled weird, which didn’t help younger me feel any better about myself. The books released within the last couple of years have become much more inclusive than the books I was reading back in high school, when I was questioning myself. Even though there is more inclusivity, there are still groups being left out; it hasn’t been until the last year that I even was able to see characters like myself on the pages of books. Last December I was finally able to put a name to my differentness, I figured out I fall somewhere on the asexual spectrum in the LGBT+ community.

A few months ago I read the young adult novel Puddin’ by Julie Murphy; it was the first book that made me feel seen. There is a character, although they’re a side character they’re still a large part of the story, that identifies as ace and goes about explaining what exactly asexuality is; how there are so many different facets that people can fit into on the ace spectrum. After reading that scene, I remember putting the book down, taking a deep breath, and then clutching it to my chest with a gigantic smile as my eyes watered—for once in my life I could see myself represented. Let me tell you, it felt so good to see a character like me. There is no other feeling in the world that’s like seeing yourself represented.

Diversity has come a long way in literature from where it used to be, but there are still so many other identities that have yet to have their time to shine. I hope we get to see more of them represented because they deserve it. Everyone deserves to feel like they are represented; whether it be because of their ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender identity, etc. EVERYONE deserves to have that moment where they go, oh shit, that character’s just like me. I want others to have the same feeling I had when I first saw a character that was like me, and made me feel less alone in my journey of discovering who I am. Like I said, we’ve come a long way with diversity, but we still have a very long way to go.

(W)riter (o)f (C)olor: A Perspective

When I was young and inexperienced, all of the characters I made were, by default, white. To put this into perspective, I am of mixed race, black and Filipino, and grew up in a predominantly black and Filipino world. I like to joke that I could count on one hand the number of white people I knew growing up, but thinking back, I’m not sure that’s an exaggeration.

And as much as I love my cultures, and I celebrate who I am and the color of my skin, this wasn’t something that I recognized until college. Even then, it took me until my junior year before I had a main character that wasn’t white.

Twitter: @WritersOfColors

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