Identity

On Saturday I attended a workshop for women writers and artists. I didn't know what to expect, so I armed myself with paper and pen (I do crosswords and sudoko in pen, too) and sat down in the first classroom, and waited. There were perhaps ten of us, with the leader, a well-known writer. I wondered if I would be out of my depth.

The theme of the session was miniatures and collections. We shared stories of collecting (or not) and of small items and how they spoke to us, and eventually the leader gave us "prompts" - three possible first lines for a poem.

I chose one and started in. The poem flowed from me. I made a few changes as I wrote, then had time to make a fair copy before we began to share our work.

Some of the participants wrote poems that would break your heart. Poems of loss and tragedy - some with happy endings, and some not so much. Others, like mine, were lighter in tone. I was absurdly pleased with my own work - not because of the poem itself but because I learned something new about myself. It made sense to me. Afterwards, a couple of people approached me to remark on word choices that they liked. It was very affirming.

The second session was held in an art museum. The theme of the session was "ekphrastic" poetry - poetry inspired by a work of art. We visited and discussed a couple of pieces of art, and had handouts with photographs of others and sample poems. The first work of art - really works of art - was a stunning collage by a Nigerian-American who produced a dense work that drew out awed comments from our class (and lots of "No, don't touch" from the museum curator). The second work of art and two of the handouts had the theme of twins. Again, I sat and began to write.

This poem also flowed, though if the first poem had flowed like water from a spring, this was more like lava - I was writing about something that had shaped my self-identity for as long as I could remember - actually, as the poem revealed, for longer than I could remember. I was writing about my identical twin, who died when we were 19 months old. I don't remember her at all, but I have memories about how her loss affected our family. I was sitting next to a friend who has a living twin. It was impossible not to write about my sister.

Again, we shared our work. This time I could see a look - almost of shock - on some of the women sitting opposite me. At the end of the session, the instructor pushed her way to me - practically over some other people - and urged me to have the poem published. I said I could put it on my blog, and she said that would be considered publishing it. I should submit it to a magazine or journal.

Now, for my entire working life I have thought of myself as an engineer. Yes, I wrote a Christmas pageant, and it was electronically published. That was fun, and I was very pleased to learn that a few people actually bought copies, and at least one church (other than my own) has used it. I would be willing to call myself a writer.

But now I have to begin to think of myself as a poet. I am 64 years old. What am I supposed to do with this identity? I am supposed to do poetry, I guess. And see if I recognize myself when I look in the mirror.