THE TOPIC: A credo of sorts. Who are you? What makes you tick? What ticks you off? What do you want out of life? What do you think life wants out of you? Really, this one’s fairly open ended. Do with it what you will.
I congratulate Alec on easing us into this essay-writing exercise with a softball.
I mean, Holy Hell, what a question: Who am I?
I feel decidedly squeamish when faced with the prospect of writing about myself and trying to answer this question. I’d much rather invent a story and pass it off as autobiographical. Or I’d rather question the topic itself, assume a philosophical air and ask, 'Can anyone ever really be known? What is identity?'
I feel decidedly squeamish when faced with the prospect of writing about myself and trying to answer this question. I’d much rather invent a story and pass it off as autobiographical. Or I’d rather question the topic itself, assume a philosophical air and ask, 'Can anyone ever really be known? What is identity?'
I would like, in short, to side-step this topic, to willfully evade it. I would like to avoid self-reflection because I find it difficult (now what does that say about me?)
Unfortunately, avoidance is no longer possible. I have to write this essay and I have to write something passable because Jae Eun Ryu continues to nag me.
So, dear reader, I will attempt to give some account of myself. The particulars might be rather disordered but self-reflection should not be an orderly business.
I am half English on the Squibb side. Squibb, incidentally, is not just a word associated with the non- magical wizard variety of person. According to family lore, backed up by a trusty google search, it is, “a nickname for a sarcastic, witty, or spiteful person, from early modern English squibbe ‘lampoon’, ‘satirical attack”. It would seem then that spite, wit, and sarcasm are my dubious heritage from that side.
The other half of me is Russian. Well, roughly speaking Russian- there is also some Ukrainian and Polish mixed in there for good measure. If family gatherings are any indication, from that side I am likely to inherit a fondness for drink, a tendency to speak way too loudly, enjoyment of a good joke, and a bit of a temper.
But enough of my forbearers, this is an account of myself and I must be careful not to drift into a tangent about the peculiarities of my family tree.
I was born in Toronto General Hospital, a few blocks and over a decade away from the spot where my parents first met. I weighed seven pounds eight ounces and had my father’s blonde hair and my mother’s grey-blue eyes. My first word was ‘Stevie’, my brother’s name, and my second word was ‘Hooray’.
I’m the middle child. Closely squished in between two brothers, (literally- on so many car trips) I couldn’t help but fight for my mother’s attention. If there was an overriding refrain to my childhood it would be: “Mom, mom, mom, look at me! Look at what I’m doing!”
I have always been rather bookish, a bit of a nerd. I’ve fallen in love with many books, authors, and characters over the years. From the brooding Russian authors like Chekhov and Tolstoy to the delightful Vonnegut and much in between, I do love reading. There’s nothing as cosy and comforting as a good book. This interest in reading and in Literature (with a capital L, oh la la) does not mean that I am a great intellectual though. For example, my stumbleupon page faithfully records that I prefer cute animal videos and funny memes to serious web content.
I am also not terribly sophisticated in other respects. I am chronically absent-minded (my mom prefers to say scatter-brained) and I can be comically oblivious to the world around me. For example, it takes about half a dozen years before I will notice a new piece of furniture in the house and I often miss important details about a person's appearance upon first meeting: “He had an eye patch?! Seriously?” My other problem is that I lose things all the bloody time. Important things too, like my driver’s license, cell phone, or library card (Yes, the library card is an important thing... Did I mention I was bookish?). Fortunately these misplaced objects almost always turn up eventually, albeit in bizarre locations. On one memorable occasion, my mom discovered my driver’s license in the fridge perched beside a container of milk.
I could probably go on in this vein for a while, ticking off little personal eccentricities and telling more silly anecdotes, but suddenly I feel as though I am leading you, gentle reader, nowhere. I am no closer to explaining (understanding?) who I am. As the internet gods would say, "Epic Fail".
I wish I had an overarching personal philosophy or an articulate raison d’être but I genuinely don’t and maybe that’s the main reason why this essay topic has left me puzzled and lost for words. Yet I am consoled by the fact that I probably still have plenty of time to decide who I am and who I want to be.
