In my favorite childhood novel “Love, Stargirl” by Jerry Spinelli, fearless and joyful Stargirl leaves behind orange halves throughout the town as a treat for birds and other animals. These oranges come to mark her path. If someone in town saw an orange half on top of a fence, they knew Stargirl had been there.
I write Kimber Was Here to have a record of how I make sense of the world. These essays are my oranges.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for following along.
One of my favorite things to teach my high school students is the concept that they are writers. I do a free-writing exercise where they write for 10 minutes, but I give them some rules.
They have to write the whole time.
They can write about anything they want – they can even swear! (they love that)
If someone tries to talk to them during this time, the only thing they can say is, “I’m a writer.”
That last rule always gets some laughs. They love yelling at the top of their lungs, “I’m a writer!!!!!” when someone disrupts them.
I love telling my students they are writers. Helping my students embrace their identity as writers is a rewarding experience. Whether we call ourselves writers, athletes, chefs, or poets, these titles represent a sense of ownership and pride in our craft. Yet, it's not always easy for individuals to claim a title for themselves.
Why do we cringe at titles sometimes?
There is a difference between saying, “I love to make art” and “I’m an artist” – with the latter, there’s a sense of ownership! Pride! Acknowledgment that you are good enough at your craft to embody that identity!
Maybe we’re afraid of putting ourselves in a box. Or perhaps we have assigned that identity of a writer artist gardener athlete whatever to someone else, someone obviously WAY better and WAY cooler and WAY more accomplished than we are.
It could feel kind of silly to call myself an “athlete” after I run a mile without wheezing when there are Usain Bolts in the world.
When I first started teaching, people would always be surprised when I told them I was the teacher! I felt weird calling myself a teacher. In fact, I even got stopped by the hall monitors asking why I was out of class one time. In our minds, we might classify teachers dressing a certain way, being a certain age, or having a certain personality (for me, it was Ms. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus).
But day after day, as I have shown up as a teacher, spoken like a teacher, and acted like a teacher, the title of “teacher” feels comfortable to me now. And the funny thing is, I don’t act or look like or embody Ms. Frizzle, I just embody me!
When it comes to making art and writing, though, I’m still working on feeling comfortable with the title.
The truth is, even though I teach my students to call themselves writers, I still have a hard time calling myself a writer sometimes.
When does someone become a writer? When they put a pen to a page? When their words are read by someone else? Is it only when they see their name in print? Or embossed on a spine on a bookshelf? Does it happen when they are in the womb – does God breathe their identity into a forming heart, and they must discover it earth-side?
I am maybe possibly hopefully a writer, and slowly testing out the word “poet” too.
A little milestone happened for me this week – a poem of mine was published! It is included in Cherish: The Love of our Mother in Heaven (volume 2)1. It is a collection of art, poems, essays, and personal stories about the LDS doctrine of a Heavenly Mother.
I got the book in the mail this week and searched and searched until I found my page.
Aha! – there it was! Page 430!
It was a tiny drop in a sea of offerings. But there she was – simple and vulnerable but important, standing up tall on the page.
One of my dreams came true! I officially have published my first poem!
When I saw the poem in print, I wondered to myself, Does this mean I’m a poet?
How does someone know when they’ve made it?? Shouldn’t there be, like, a huge check in the mail? A parade? A certificate of achievement, maybe? Or maybe you just become a poet when you say you are a poet.
It can feel so powerful to claim what is inside of you.
And so, in true Inception fashion, here is a poem for you about becoming a poet, written by yours truly.
The Birth of a Poet
Did all poets
have to go through the process –
the realization
that they were, in fact, poets?
Did they wake up one day, startled
that their whole closet was filled with turtlenecks
that their notebooks were filled with scribbles
that ink smudged their pillows, their hands?
Did they walk out of their house
and see a new mist curling above the solidary lake?
Did they hear the birds' songs and the babies' cries in new pitches?
Did they narrate conversations in their heads,
wondering at the punctuation marks?
Did all the poets have a day
when they regarded themselves in the mirror,
felt a shift of identity,
and admitted
that their own words
had moved them?
Here’s to embracing the ebbing and flowing of titles in our lives, which are all, truthfully, kind of made up in the first place.
Thanks for reading,
Here’s the link if you’re interested in taking a look at the collection!
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What! Congrats on your lovely poem in print! And your just as lovely poems on Substack. :) I have struggled with this concept a lot through the years, so it was fun to read your thoughts. I feel comfortable calling myself an editor now because I get paid to edit, but calling myself a writer in recent years has been a challenge! I loved hearing about the exercise you do with your students. You sound like the coolest English teacher.
I really enjoyed stopping to think about this concept as I read your words. How DOES one acquire an official title for these things? I guess we each are entitled to declare it for ourselves at anytime. Thanks for the new thought Kimber! 🩵