Written by Tiane Davis
When I was in elementary school, I loved to read. I still do, but back then it was a huge part of my identity. I carried books around everywhere and checked them out at the school library whenever I could.
When my identity as a “great” reader was at its peak, I was probably 8 years old. I don’t mean to diminish my 8-year-old self, but my reading skills were no where near their peak when I was that age. To offer better perspective, I was still years aways from knowing how to do my own laundry. The word “essay” was a foreign concept to me. There was a lot I still didn’t know.
At that time, I still pronounced the word “opportunity” wrong, and I have a feeling I wasn’t completely comprehending everything I was reading. I could probably now only name about five books I read in elementary school, and that’s only after I think long and hard about it.
One of those that I can name is Dr. Suess’ “Green Eggs and Ham,” which I read in kindergarten. The fact that I read it as a 5-year-old makes me wonder when literacy actually began for me. Do you ever try to remember the first time you could read? I remember the times I struggled to spell my name, and how I always tried to write letters backward because I wasn’t getting it. But I don’t remember a switch being flipped or a sudden realization that I could read the words “Sam-I-Am.” I remember times when I looked at words in a book and wished I could sound them out and understand what they said, but those memories are few.
Generally, most of the skills I had as an 8-year-old were rudimentary at best. It’s a humbling realization that, in a decade or two, I might look back at my current abilities with the same judgment. If someone told me to write down all the skills I have, along with the day and time that I gained each one, I would not be able to do it. That’s because a lot of our skills have no start or end and are never black and white.
Ultimately, all of our defining skills will be a work in progress. Calling oneself a writer, or any other identity, is a courageous acknowledgment of being a perpetual work in progress. I can’t remember the mooment I became a reader or writer because it was and always will be a process.
Knowing that we will never reach perfection does not have to be a loss. Rather than thinking, “I will never be perfect no matter how hard I try,” we can tell ourselves, “I will always have room to grow.” The pursuit of improvement rather than perfection is a journey worth embracing.
No matter how we feel, there is almost never a defining moment for when we “become” something or someone. We just keep living life, and one day we realize we have been that thing for a while already. After that, some days we will feel incompetent or not good enough to fit the standard we have set for ourselves. I feel like a great writer one day but completely incapable the next. But that is part of the beauty of it.
Acknowledging shortcomings doesn’t reduce the essence of who we are. On the days we feel less than, it is crucial to remember that identity is not based on flawless execution. Mistakes and moments of inadequacy don’t erase the essence of selfhood.
Being a writer is not confined to the days of inspiration; it also encompasses the days I face a block or don’t feel good enough. The same goes for being human. One of the greatest parts of being a human is that we don’t stop living or being when we fail. I am a writer because I fail and grow through that failure. And I am a human for the same reasons.
