The instructor said,

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you—

Then, it will be true.

—"Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes

Perhaps you recognize this poem. If you do, then your mind has probably moved on to the question the next line poses: "I wonder if it's that simple?" Saying who we are is never simple (read the entire poem if you need evidence of that). Write a truthful page about yourself for us, an audience you do not know—a very tall order. Hughes begins: "I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem./I went to school there, then Durham, then here/to this college on the hill above Harlem./I am the only colored student in my class." That is, each of us is of a certain age and of a particular family background. We have lived somewhere and been schooled. We are each what we feel and see and hear. Begin there and see what happens.

I’m seventeen, pale, and insecure. I was born to parents with rural origins and average income. The city I live in is the one where I was born and its public school system is my education. That history might be considered a tad bit dull, but I love this place. I spend my free time reading, writing and drawing. I’ve put those three gerunds on countless sheets of paper designed to profile me as a student.

I really only started being a true person in high school. Some people had shells they retreated into, but I had no need to retreat—I never came out to begin with. When I was not at school I stayed home, read, became a little too smart for my own good, and thought that was enough. If I had a personality at all, it might be termed a little creepy and utterly antisocial. Even now my superlative might involve a future with lot of cats and a ‘Keep Off the Grass’ sign in the front yard. But supposing that is my future, at least now I know I’ll have some neighbors from the old days to keep me company.

I have this part of me that prefers to recoil back from people. I don’t think I’ll ever lose that need to be alone. Elementary and middle school were therefore more awkward for me than most people I know. I had only a few friends in the earlier school years, most of whom I didn’t like by the time I found what kind of person I was or was going to be. Those friends I had were results of uncontrollable situations. Eventually I realized they weren’t my people. The problem was that I didn’t really have any people. I couldn’t exactly trade in friends, and I didn’t really know what I needed.

Reading really was my social downfall. Not only would I hide in my books, I would always smell the pages. I turned a page, I smelled it. Over and over again this would serve as a monotonous, weird background noise to any activities in my vicinity. I was a bit disturbing about my books. Now I read them in private; in public they tend to isolate the reader.

High school was a shock. I hate going from one of the oldest people in school to one of the youngest. It’s like a fall from grace. One thing high school brought me was a strange sort of confidence. Once I was lower than dirt, I could do whatever I wanted because no one cares what bacteria does with its spare time. Freshmen are usually overlooked, and under this cover I was able to make real friends without the usual inundation of shyness. These real friends are the one who tease me for my oddities but simultaneously understand and even share a few of the same characteristics.

Books aren’t my only passion. Writing has been a part of my soul forever, and it’s well-documented. My first finished story is from the third grade and the story line, from what I can glean from the meandering prose and childish scrawl, revolves around a lot of very odd creatures. The climax was about one sentence long and something to the effect of “and he ran away.” Besides the stilted dialogue and unrelatable characters, I thought the story was genius. It was the only story I would complete until my junior year of high school. Now stories are so complicated. They have to mean something or I’m unsatisfied. The prose has to be beautiful or I’ve failed myself. Looking back on something I’ve written incurs panic but also smugness that I was born with this skill, even if it is imperfect. My relationship with my writing is rocky but it’s the only thing that gives me any sense of purpose in life. Thinking of the difficulty in achieving anything in the field makes me feel vaguely lost because I have nowhere else to go. Writing is it for me.

My desire for solitude leads to an assumed ambivalence, prompting some acquaintances to state that I have no emotion. It hurts. However, I’ve accepted that I can’t change their perceptions of me; I think I need a change of scenery before I can create a fresh persona. It’s hard to change around people who have known me forever but not well enough to see through a flimsy facade. They like putting me in a neat little box. I think the impression I make as a loner is a strong one to those who aren’t exceptionally close.

I experimented a lot with activities when I was younger, searching for something I loved and was good at. I tap-danced. I tried gymnastics, soccer, swimming and field hockey and even managed to excel at many of them at the younger, simple level when soccer was just kicking a ball as hard as I could. But I settled down. I’m a rower through and through. I love being out on the water.

I can probably sum myself up in a paragraph: I’m of average height and pretty plain. I visit my grandmother’s farm and I visit big cities and can’t find comfort in either zone. My music taste is eclectic if it’s anything. I can’t say it’s particularly excellent taste; I’m no connoisseur. As a former passenger in my Midwestern father’s car, I can sing along with nearly any country song. I try to like things I believe others would want me to like—I try to like Pink Floyd and fail for the most part. I watch movies I can’t stand because I feel like I should. I buy classic literature that I know I probably won’t wade through with any kind of joy if at all. Those books look good on my shelf. I’m kind of shallow that way. I like Phillip Pullman more than Dumas and it shames me. People who recite movie lines annoy me even though I do the same thing. I can’t help but smirk when I answer a question correctly in class even though I know no one is impressed. I have a hard time making up my mind as to who I am.

I’m versatile. Sometimes I can look out of my eyes and not concentrate on what’s behind them. I love those days the best. I believe the University of Chicago can solidify an uncertain character, and that’s what I’m hoping I can experience.