For a while, I was back and forth on if I should call myself Italian-American or not. I’m 3rd generation…and is that really enough to say I am not simply US American? Do I have the right to claim my Italian Heritage when I don’t speak the language, or have the same ideals as many Italian? Or live the same way? Haven’t I been thoroughly Americanized by now? Haven’t I…
You know what? That’s a pretty bullshit existential crisis I was having. It’s a conflict born out of white privilege. I can be US American…or I can be Italian-American. I can choose that. But only white Americans have that luxury. I have an awesomely diverse group of friends, and despite various creeds, genders, colors, and sexualities, it’s upsetting to think that outside of this community, we are treated very differently, but one of those ways is pretty arbitrary…adjectives.
Maybe 10 times a year, I am mistaken for Middle Eastern, and treated as an Arab-American for 30 seconds before they realize I’m Italian. When my family lived in Southwestern Virginia, it was made very clear that we were not white, just looked white. We were “passing” as white. We were the Other, and were treated accordingly. And it sucked. And we moved. And it ended. But my friends who do have darker skin colors, regardless of what that heritage might be, can’t simply move away from it. Yet for 99.999% of my life, I’ll be treated like a white American.
And this is kind of new for an Italian. 2 generations ago, regardless of location we were a minority. Now, we’re not. White includes Southern European countries now. And that’s simply luck. We are very damned lucky not to be treated like our 1st generation ancestors were. Which, by the way, is how black, Hispanic, Asian, and Arab-Americans are treated now. We didn’t earn white privilege, the rest of the white America just got lazy, or something. I can’t point to when Italians became “white,” but we did. And we should not take that for granted, nor should we forget how our ancestors in America were treated. Because many of our friends are being treated that way now.
So, I am going by Italian-American. Why? Because I have friends who are black, who have roots in this country going back far longer than mine, and they are called African-American. Not because of their continent of origin, but because of the color of their skin. Even if they are called Black American, that is still an arbitrary and segregating adjective. I have Arab friends whose family came to America not long after mine, but they don’t get to decide to just be American now. They have brown skin, so they are Arab-American. They aren’t even given their country of origin. I have Native American friends who legitimately have heritage here going back further than any white American, but they have an adjective because they aren’t white. I am going by Italian-American because I have no right to go by anything else. I am not indigenous. My roots are from elsewhere. But mostly, if my friends can’t just be called American, I don’t even want to be able to claim that title either.
So, last night,I kind of had to admit something. I was looking at my various writing friends discussing achievements or their work, or just #iamwriting…and I realized something. I’ve had an inspiration problem lately. I’m not sure for how long, but it’s been there. It’s not that I don’t have stories to tell, I have several that I want to
tell. In fact, that’s part of the issue—I really want to tell these stories, but it can be easy to feel like they never will be. I’ve been editing Sin’s Requiem, the thematic sister-story to Trading Saints for Sinners. And I’ll get maybe 5 or 6 pages in before feeling exhausted. Writing new fiction just seems overwhelming right now.
It’s not just my writing, either. I’m grading more slowly, forcing myself through essay after essay and getting increasingly frustrated as I do. Even just reading. I actually enjoy taking my time and savoring a book, but I’ve been working on the same book for over a month. And graphic novels, where I was reading one a day or every other day, I haven’t read one in 3 weeks. And most unlike me, I haven’t even been going to the movies as much, even though I can go again after my surgery. I used to plan my week out with movies, but I have nothing for this weekend yet.
Mainly, I want to scroll Facebook and eat crackers and not think about anything. So I am writing this. Because writing is how I am going to figure out why I haven’t felt inspired. Discovery through writing, as I tell my students.
It would be easy to blame having surgery and not being able to leave the house much for two weeks. Or that I was fighting an infection before that and didn’t even know it. But even if there is some truth to that, I know it isn’t the main reason.
I think there are two things happening. One, is Impostor Syndrome. A few nights ago, I had a few friends over, 3 of them also writers, and we joked about Impostor Syndrome being a side effect of being a writer. If you don’t know what that is, basically, it’s that you feel like a fraud and that your accomplishments are just lies and eventually someone is going to figure out that you are fooling everyone. You know, the old trick of studying hard, getting an advanced degree, publishing several works, taking on crippling student debt in order to be an underpaid adjunct. Bwahahaha, the fools will never expect me! Yeah, I know, I’m good at my job, I’m a good writer, but I still feel like I’m getting away with something half the time, or I undersell my achievements. But that seems to have had a different effect lately: Why try? I’m not as good as I trick people into believing, so why keep trying. And, side note—a writer feeling like a fraud for tricking people into believing something about them doesn’t even make sense, really. A fiction writer’s sole purpose is to trick people into believing something that isn’t real, so this internalization of the process is both a paradox of what we use our skills for, and a detriment to our own self-image. In essence, we are making ourselves into stories and characters to fool an audience, so we have no actual identities. That’s the feeling, anyway. And eventually, someone will realize we’ve just been writing and acting ourselves. So, why deal with it? Sin’s Requiem isn’t probably that good anyway, and if people think it is, I fooled them (again, that’s actually my job).
So, that’s a part of it. I don’t want to deal with keeping up the truth [that my brain keeps telling me is a lie], but it’s also motivation. I’m tired. Not just physically, but we’re ending March, it’s been a hectic academic year, and it’s not over yet. Enrollment is down horribly, so I have no summer courses and I am going to have to work a different job to pay rent and whatnot, and I don’t want to think about more work. And when you’re a writer, the thing you love—writing—is work. A chef may love cooking, but that doesn’t mean that every night at their restaurant, they’re motivated to cook. When your passion is also your job, it’s sometimes hard to remember the passion part of it.
Hopefully, when the term is over, I can break from everything for a few days. No teaching, no writing, just read lazily and watch movies. Or maybe I’ll find a burst of inspiration before that and I can get The Catholic Noir Double Feature finished and discuss things with my publisher for the Winter. Team up with a friend for some book fairs.
But being a creative person and not feeling motivated to produce creative work is frustrating. It’s like wanting to drive forward, but the car is stuck in neutral. I want to do more, just can’t find the energy to do more.
The worst thing a writer can do is force themselves to write. That bragging/condescending thing about “You should be writing EVERY DAY” is a lie. It doesn’t mean the writer is lazy, it just means
the 900 narratives going on in their head have some gridlock. It’s mentally exhausting, and it’s not that the writer is taking a day off, it’s that they’re working things out in their head, and it kind of sucks. It’s easy to feel like you’re not doing anything when you just don’t feel ready to commit the idea to paper. “Just write” is bullshit. But it still hurts not to write, it just also hurts to write. That’s the other thing I’m feeling. I’m just not happy with whatever small bits of new writing I’ve attempted, and it’s bringing me down.
All right, I’ve written almost 1000 words on not writing. Actually, it will be 1000 words NOW! I have no answers. I hate the bullshit responses I listed above that people, even other writers, think is helpful when they really aren’t. If an architect said “I don’t know what the building will look like” would you tell them “Well, just build it anyway!” No. Because it’s not that simple. It never is. So, I want to write, I have little inspiration and no energy, but a dozen stories to be told.
I’m going to blame my students. Can I do that? Blame them and move on? Yes. It’s all their faults. Okay. Still doesn’t solve anything, but students are the worst, am I right?
Damn it. I said I would find an answer. None yet.
I’m just going to keep revising Sin’s Requiem 6 pages at a time and hope for a Winter publication.
It’s Easter Sunday, but we had our Easter dinner yesterday. Being Atheist, I can cheat like that, and for my Christian friends who joined me yesterday, they get to have TWO Easters, so, it’s a big win for them. But, yeah, I’m atheist, so why did I want to do something for Easter? Well, Atheist Easter essentially meant going to Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice (holy messianic figures, Batman!), and bringing friends home for Spaghetti and Meatballs and Italian Easter Bread. And that’s why—just cooking that food. Yep, the most stereotypical Italian-American dinner for a very Christian holiday, with a bread that is three loaves woven together to represent the Holy Trinity and colored eggs to represent fertility rebirth.
My sister and I made a dinner of olives, cheese, hummus, breadsticks, eggplant cutlets, salad, and the 2 pounds of spaghetti and 4 ½ pounds of meatballs, and Italian Easter Bread for dessert. It was a lot of food. For 6 people. Yeah, that’s a lot of food, but that’s the Italian-American way. If your guests can move at the end of the meal, you failed them as a host. And I love that. I love cooking in general. It’s like meditation, and very therapeutic, But I also love cooking for people. I host movie nights a few times a year. Since I’ve been living with my sister, we’ve thrown some epic movie parties. I’m single right now, but in relationships…I think my cooking is often what wins the girl over. I remember my grandmother (Granny) cooking epic dinners. Epic and when I am cooking a feast, it feels great.
I don’t believe in a god. I don’t believe that Christ rose from the dead. I do love the stories in the bible, and the mythology of the Abrahamic religions in general. And I love the pagan traditions that the Christian religion adopted. Many of my friends are religious, many aren’t. But I’ve had a Christmas and Easter celebration this year (the Christmas one, we had an Elf brunch and it was spectacular). More than anything else, it’s just great to cook for people, even if it means living up to an Italian-American stereotype, it’s kind of the best one a culture can have.
So, if you are celebrating Easter from the Christian tradition, Happy Easter! Christ is Risen.
If you celebrate the pagan goddess Easter, may Ishtar bless you with fertility!
If you don’t celebrate either, have an awesome day, and find an Italian Market to get some Easter Bread before it all runs out (actually, do this regardless of your religion)
Be warned, I am going to talk about a surgery I had, so, it might be a little gross. I’ll keep it light, though.
It’s Official. Women, as a whole, have much better taste in movies than men as a whole.
Happy International Women’s Day!
via IMDb Picks – IMDb.
I’m glad I came across this today, as I am struggling to find new ways to engage my students in class and outside of it. Turns out, what’s happening now has happened before. Teachers today are not alone in struggling with students (I don’t blame the students or teachers they had before me, I blame No Child Left Behind and Standardized Testing), but teachers all throughout time struggled. I’m just glad I was in school at a time where we had a strong educational system, and had great teachers.