Maybe It's Just Me

Written by Sania Choudhary, Grade 11.

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Photo by Katherine Chui

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It’s a funny thing, trying to describe myself, what makes me, well me. What gives me my identity. I’m not so sure that I know, nor that I ever knew, nor that I ever truly will know. To myself, I am just a camera, a lens through which I am watching the sequence of events known as my life. I could tell you what makes my mom who she is, or my dad who he is, or even my dog who he is, too. I could do the same for my aunts, for my uncles, and for my friends. But myself? I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Maybe it’s physical:

my wavy hair that I’ve parted the same since I was three.

my long eyebrows that I learned to synchronously and asynchronously wiggle around when I was five.

my lips that I first learned to whistle through when I was six, scaring my mom into thinking

a stranger was in our house while my dad was away on a trip.

Maybe it’s my small frame.

Maybe it’s emotional:

my smile in my naturally joyous state.

my tears in my darkest sorrows.

my subconscious reaction to block things out when they begin to affect me too deeply.

Maybe it’s what I like:

my eyes reading for hours on end and feeling true bliss

my heart melting when I see a dog

my hands dancing on black and white piano keys for twelve years

Or maybe it’s what I don’t like, be it spiders or cauliflower or horror of any form

Maybe it’s my culture:

my parents’ North Indian heritage,

my extended family that lives across the globe,

the traditional heavy dress with all imaginable colors,

the native language I forgot.

Maybe it’s my love of family:

that my mom and I can be arguing one second and then crying from laughter the next,

that there’s nothing that my dad and I enjoy more than a scenic drive,

that my dog is my other half,

Maybe it’s that we named him Dude.

Maybe it’s my bonds with my friends:

how we fall on the floor as we laugh over the smallest joke.

how we hold each other as we cry when we remove a heavy weight from our shoulders.

our obnoxious sleepovers where no one really sleeps.

Or maybe it’s a multitude of other things:

my optimism, my weirdest habit, my style.

It could be anything.

But looking back I find myself thinking that maybe it’s not just any thing.

Maybe… just maybe…

Maybe it’s everything.