Just Me

I read over the weekend Orwell’s essay, “Politics and the English Language.” It had been mentioned in the Michael Knowles’ podcast in relation to a story about a boy getting in troubled for using clear—that is, good—English in an essay. The gull.

It certainly reminded me of some teachers I have had, though I would not say most. I read parts of the essay out loud to my mother while also sharing the clip of Michael’s show with her, and she asked me one pointed question that I couldn’t answer: “Why was I different?” That is, being a woman, she avoided the abstract questions and made things personal.

I didn’t, and don’t, have a real answer for her. I don’t like talking or even thinking much about myself. I take it from her, and from a lifetime of people asking me similar questions, that I am a little different. I have and do, and I undoubtedly will continue to, upset certain types for some nebulous “weirdness” that they have not articulated.

I had a teacher, only a few months ago, get very upset with me over this “weirdness.” Put on the spot, in front of the class, I felt pressed to give some defense of myself, for an offense that has never been made clear, and the best answer I could give was twofold: On the one hand, I honestly don’t know how to change myself, and on the other, I see no reason to.