Identities: How We Find Them
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Picture me as a little girl who had just lost her smile, in a hospital setting with a large, heavy bandage around my head and other children in various states of injury and disability arranged around me. In front of us are the musicians and singers—able bodied and smiling broadly. They sing we listen. They talk we are silent. I feel the separation and decide in my child’s mind that I will never belong on that stage. This was a heart break for my singing self.
Most of my life I have spent chasing after, trying to own, the identities of singer, guitar player, songwriter, writer and musician while actually believing that I was only a “helper, listener, worker”. Those latter identities were and are important but there was a problem: the artist in me always seemed to get a back seat and certainly not a seat at the table. She did not get the effort and attention she deserved. This was connected to the implicit beliefs/rules in society (and in myself) that someone who did not look ‘normal’ (eg facial disability) could not own the identity of performing artist. This was the fallout of the decision/perception of the traumatized child in the hospital. For many years I wanted this identity more than anything. I did achieve it for a brief period but could not rest in it and unconsciously felt I was on borrowed time-- which was true in part because I had an undiagnosed condition of spasmodic vocal dysphonia (emerging out of that medical trauma) making my singing voice randomly disappear.
Still, layer by layer I became myself, shaped by the questions I asked, the questions I refused to ask and questions I never thought to ask. I suffered through the fiery crucibles of experience then rose up anew: purified of the ‘not me’ strengthened in the ‘me’. Maria Hinojosa in her memoir, I Once Was You, looks deeply at the issue of identity, including the identity (or we could also call it an aspect of self) of survivor. An important step in the formation and re-formation of myself was owning my disabilities. I relaxed when I could say yes I have microtia and dysphonia—I am a survivor of hospital trauma.
I am also an artist according to the following definition: An artist expresses from a dimension just beyond the senses and inspires others to see life symbolically.
I did pivot to guitar playing after losing my singing voice for the third time but was stopped by the fear of failure generated by the leftover heartbreak of failing at singing my own songs. I did believe in my songs but I abandoned many of them. I often would hire other people to record them and then for sure I would leave them in the dust. Eventually the songs stopped coming even after I developed a way of writing them in my head (not being able to sing them).
The pandemic seemed to stir up my ability to create again. Because I couldn’t default to my favored defense system of overwork, I had time to write. I wrote two songs and resuscitated two old ones. I wrote and collaborated on some tango instrumentals. I began to develop a way of speak-singing. (my speaking voice was less affected by the dysphonia). This was all good but the ghosts kept haunting who I was becoming (more confident). My identity of writer began to suffer because my self-published book came out at the same time as the pandemic and I couldn’t find the steam and skills to promote it. The truth is that after all the years of being brave and strong and fighting the definitions of what an artist was supposed to be, a part of me was giving up.
Then I had the following dream. “I am running barefoot through an airport to catch a plane. I am carrying a large disintegrating box with my mother’s ashes in it. I trip and fall spilling the ashes. I lie there collapsed in a sense of failure until I hear voices around me saying, “What is the matter here?” And a man with kindly eyes says “Don’t give up---ever”. I listen to him and receive the help they give me—new ticket, shoes, a small secure box of the ashes. I am able to fly.”
I didn’t understand my dream immediately but when I saw the last episode of Colin in Black and White, the inspiring story of Colin Kaepernick’s struggle to become what he wanted to be (a quarterback against all odds) where he says, “To all the overlooked…..trust in your power.” In that moment I got it.
My interpretation of the dream: I am trying to go somewhere (out in the world with my art) without the proper grounding and preparation (shoes). I am carrying my mother’s remains in an unboundaried box that is making a mess—yet still feel responsible, as I did with her depression pattern. I am falling into failure feelings and my own depression. However, out of this crucible of suffering I manage to listen to the ‘help’ that arrives. I am cared for and realize that the care is there if I ask and receive it. Feeling unworthy I often don’t think to ask for help even if time and again it works out well.
Here’s to all of us who struggle to find our identities. even in the deserts of non-representation.
You can find more explanation of photos here.
Picture me as a little girl who had just lost her smile, in a hospital setting with a large, heavy bandage around my head and other children in various states of injury and disability arranged around me. In front of us are the musicians and singers—able bodied and smiling broadly. They sing we listen. They talk we are silent. I feel the separation and decide in my child’s mind that I will never belong on that stage. This was a heart break for my singing self.
Most of my life I have spent chasing after, trying to own, the identities of singer, guitar player, songwriter, writer and musician while actually believing that I was only a “helper, listener, worker”. Those latter identities were and are important but there was a problem: the artist in me always seemed to get a back seat and certainly not a seat at the table. She did not get the effort and attention she deserved. This was connected to the implicit beliefs/rules in society (and in myself) that someone who did not look ‘normal’ (eg facial disability) could not own the identity of performing artist. This was the fallout of the decision/perception of the traumatized child in the hospital. For many years I wanted this identity more than anything. I did achieve it for a brief period but could not rest in it and unconsciously felt I was on borrowed time-- which was true in part because I had an undiagnosed condition of spasmodic vocal dysphonia (emerging out of that medical trauma) making my singing voice randomly disappear.
Still, layer by layer I became myself, shaped by the questions I asked, the questions I refused to ask and questions I never thought to ask. I suffered through the fiery crucibles of experience then rose up anew: purified of the ‘not me’ strengthened in the ‘me’. Maria Hinojosa in her memoir, I Once Was You, looks deeply at the issue of identity, including the identity (or we could also call it an aspect of self) of survivor. An important step in the formation and re-formation of myself was owning my disabilities. I relaxed when I could say yes I have microtia and dysphonia—I am a survivor of hospital trauma.
I am also an artist according to the following definition: An artist expresses from a dimension just beyond the senses and inspires others to see life symbolically.
I did pivot to guitar playing after losing my singing voice for the third time but was stopped by the fear of failure generated by the leftover heartbreak of failing at singing my own songs. I did believe in my songs but I abandoned many of them. I often would hire other people to record them and then for sure I would leave them in the dust. Eventually the songs stopped coming even after I developed a way of writing them in my head (not being able to sing them).
The pandemic seemed to stir up my ability to create again. Because I couldn’t default to my favored defense system of overwork, I had time to write. I wrote two songs and resuscitated two old ones. I wrote and collaborated on some tango instrumentals. I began to develop a way of speak-singing. (my speaking voice was less affected by the dysphonia). This was all good but the ghosts kept haunting who I was becoming (more confident). My identity of writer began to suffer because my self-published book came out at the same time as the pandemic and I couldn’t find the steam and skills to promote it. The truth is that after all the years of being brave and strong and fighting the definitions of what an artist was supposed to be, a part of me was giving up.
Then I had the following dream. “I am running barefoot through an airport to catch a plane. I am carrying a large disintegrating box with my mother’s ashes in it. I trip and fall spilling the ashes. I lie there collapsed in a sense of failure until I hear voices around me saying, “What is the matter here?” And a man with kindly eyes says “Don’t give up---ever”. I listen to him and receive the help they give me—new ticket, shoes, a small secure box of the ashes. I am able to fly.”
I didn’t understand my dream immediately but when I saw the last episode of Colin in Black and White, the inspiring story of Colin Kaepernick’s struggle to become what he wanted to be (a quarterback against all odds) where he says, “To all the overlooked…..trust in your power.” In that moment I got it.
My interpretation of the dream: I am trying to go somewhere (out in the world with my art) without the proper grounding and preparation (shoes). I am carrying my mother’s remains in an unboundaried box that is making a mess—yet still feel responsible, as I did with her depression pattern. I am falling into failure feelings and my own depression. However, out of this crucible of suffering I manage to listen to the ‘help’ that arrives. I am cared for and realize that the care is there if I ask and receive it. Feeling unworthy I often don’t think to ask for help even if time and again it works out well.
Here’s to all of us who struggle to find our identities. even in the deserts of non-representation.
You can find more explanation of photos here.
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