The passion
This could be my last column for the semester--maybe even forever. Whether I will continue writing for The Chronicle is yet to be seen.
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This could be my last column for the semester--maybe even forever. Whether I will continue writing for The Chronicle is yet to be seen.
Imagine if we all had tags attached to ourselves that would sum us up in one phrase. What would yours say? Would it say engineer? Maybe “I am a Southerner?” Christian? Mestizo? Liberal? “I am Jewish?” Or how about homosexual? Frat boy? There are a million possibilities. The irony is that you are limited to one.
It was Career Day. Most of the first graders came donning ties, briefcases or police caps. Esther Lee wore a dress—the one with purple flowers—because her mom wore one that day, too. During presentations, when it was her turn, she rambled without hesitation. “I’m dressed like my mommy. She goes to the store and sells stuff. And sometimes I go to work with her and stand in the front and yell, ‘Come into the store! Come in!’” Her classmates smiled and clapped. The girl beamed innocently. She was her mother’s child.
No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.
Self of the past: When I was your age, I wanted to be an actress. I wanted it so much that I even auditioned for a performing arts program without my parents’ permission and made it. There, I honed all my skills as an entertainer; I even got to perform a small role in a play in front of my peers. My teachers said I had talent, and I believed them. I wasn’t only going to be an actress; I was going to be a star.
If I told you that I was a closet Hanson fan, what would you say? Would you laugh? What if I told you that I could name all 150 of the original Pokémon? Or how would you react if I said I enjoyed diagramming sentences in middle school?