Whittling

Whittling

Allison C.

     When I walk out of my art class, I look up at the sky and I notice the color. I appreciate how it contrasts with the red brick of the building. I see little patches of bright blue peeking through the brilliant green leaves. I follow the little wisps across the sky with my eyes, and I wonder what it would be like to paint them.
     When I’m sitting in my math class, I stare down at the floor and I see the lines. I find myself counting the number of tiles between my desk and the next. I notice when the edges of the tiles don’t quite meet up, and I wonder if anyone has ever measured the angles.
     When I'm reclining in my English class, I listen to the people around me. I hear the squeaky voices, and the deep ones. I hear their accents. I listen to all the rhythms of speech, and I wonder if someone should be recording them.
     When I’m in Art, I’m an artist. When I’m in Statistics, I’m a mathematician. When I’m in English, I’m a linguist. I am something different everywhere I go.
     I know who I am. I know what makes me happy; I know what I believe. I just don’t know what I am.
     Most adults have no problem telling you what they are. A lawyer. A mother. A waitress. A clerk. But none of them know who they are. What happened? How did they discover their role only to lose their identity?
     I've been so worried about finding my niche in life—what I can call myself—that I haven't considered the consequences of my search. If I spend all my effort trying to fit a model, what will happen to the rest of me? If you can't fit a square peg in a round hole, then what about a free-form peg with twists, turns, bumps, grooves, and a couple of holes in the middle?
     I don't want my quirks to be just a pile of shavings on the floor. But I want to fit. Because maybe if I squeeze myself into their little box, the great wide world won't seem so big.