In elementary school, my brother and I were often
asked by strangers whether we were twins. We would reply
with silence and continue walking, our D.A.R.E. training kicking in like an
autoimmune response. Safety first, that was the motto.
It
didn't help that my mother would march us to school in
matching attire, khaki short-shorts that ballooned out at the bottoms, knee high socks protruding out of chunky
sneakers, and backpacks large enough to hide
in. However, looking closer, as
my brother and I often did, our differences revealed themselves.
My
brother had an organized array of freckles
that ran under his eyes and trailed
across the bridge of his nose, whereas
I had a spackling of moles that would
sometimes get mistaken for fallen crumbs of food. He had
a bright white smile that seemed to radiate a kind of holy energy, and I had a broken front tooth with a sharp
edge. He was in special classes
and I was in the "special" class.
The "special" class was not where I wanted to be. In the mornings, when my brother and
I would be parted and shuttled away from each other, the feeling of being left
behind would creep up and then hover
over me for the rest of the day.
The way out was to become "normal," which I
suppose really meant functional. It was a lofty task with no clear steps,
and so I decided to do the next best thing: instead of becoming functional, I
would fake it.
I
was placed in the special class due to my poor reading and writing skills, which at
that time meant I had trouble
recognizing the relationship between cause and effect. The teacher might ask, "Why was Billy sad
at the end of the book?" To which I might reply, "I get scared
sometimes too. But my favorite color is green." That being said, I
was certainly dabbling in the principle of cause and effect; if I could convince the teacher I was
normal, then I would, in effect, be freed from the darkest corner of the
school.
For several months, I was bombarded with
corrections. My poor teacher must have
done her best to avoid me and my
answers, but I made sure there was very little she could do. The only
option for the both of us was to tackle the problem head on, and that's precisely what we
did.
By some kind of miracle, the corrections became
fewer and farther in between. Through experimentation I slowly learned
exactly what it was the teacher expected of me. I felt more sure of my
answers and responded with more confidence. And then, after a year in the
special class, I was released back into the herd.
By
the time I reached high school, the
chip in my tooth had been filled with a kind of hardened putty; it broke
frequently but was, for the most part, functional. My brother and I looked less
and less alike. He was in baggy jeans and I was in pants far too tight. I
bring up high school because it was
the first time since elementary school that I felt undeserving of my
success. I was faking it after all.
Perhaps it was the sudden influx of hormones,
or perhaps it was the confused angst of Holden
Caulfield slowly seeping in, but I felt like a phony.
I didn't get perspective on this issue until
much later in life when I was a sophomore in college. The angst was still
there; I was fighting "the man" in the only way I knew how. I took on a major my parents
could be ashamed of: creative writing. I had a great teacher who dished out lifesaving
advice for writers. "If you want to be a writer," he said, "marry rich."
He had much
more to offer too. "Fake it till you make it," he said, one sweaty summer afternoon.
In other words, the only way to become a writer was to pretend to be a
writer. One day, it just might click.
That moment happened
for me during the fall term when I had
to critically analyze a short story. I didn't particularly like the
story--not yet at least--and I found myself flipping through the pages looking
for patterns...but mostly I was watch the leaves fall over a footpath that cut
through the center of campus. How
would a writer analyze the story? I wasn't sure.
I thought about my English teacher in high school and wondered how he
might read the story. He talked
a lot about the metaphorical masks we wear. He
was obsessed with identity and it became a kind of running joke the class had behind his back. But on this particular fall
day, looking out at the leaves, I put his
mask on and examined the story again.
It wasn't immediate, but eventually I could see
what was buried behind the text. The patterns had been right in front of
me all along. It was an awakening. Everything became clear all at once. It had
finally clicked.
All
this being said, the road to becoming a successful writer is a troubled
one. More often than not, you might feel as if you're bluffing. I still
do, but I urge you to welcome the opportunity. Be a phony!
Raise your hand and be
corrected! Let your teachers loathe your presence! Pretend to be a
writer until it clicks. Fake it till you
make it!
