La Impostora Regresa

Wednesday was a great day. An essay I worked hard on and was proud of was published on The Rumpus. I was (and am) crazy-thrilled. I pretty much never send my work out. I either post it here or leave it gathering dust in the back folders of my cloud drive. So writing a pitch, sending my essay out … it was a huge deal for me. And then to have the piece accepted … ! Of course I was happy.

In the essay, I give white people some marching orders, elaborate on something I need them to do. And, shortly after I shared the essay, two different white women commented to say they would be changing their behavior post haste.

Their comments surprised me. I mean, yes, I was telling people to make a change … but was I expecting them to do what I’d asked? Was I expecting them to tell me they’d listened to what I’d said?

My first response to their comments was to start writing back, something along the lines of: “Oh, well, you don’t have to make that change! I mean, if you *want* to, sure, but don’t do it on my account!”

Happily, I stopped myself from typing or sending those messages. Because I was asking them to make a change. Quite clearly. asking.

So why was I so quick to back off my request the moment someone let me know they were considering it?

Oh yes, she’s back!! La Impostora and her twice-damned syndrome!

I know, of course, that this is still a beast I have to battle. I haven’t kidded myself that I had somehow magically vanquished Impostor Syndrome as I lay sleeping. I’ve simply been waiting for her to rear her ugly head again. But I wasn’t expecting that head-rearing to happen in response to publishing this essay. And that’s silly, of course. I had put my work out in the world and it was getting a good response … of COURSE I would suddenly find myself pushing back against Impostor Syndrome. What better, more obvious time would there be for me to be showered with gifts from this treasure trove of insecurity?

Who am I to think I can tell white folks what they should and shouldn’t be doing? Who am I to think my feelings about people’s behavior meant enough, mattered enough, carried enough weight that I could say, “stop doing this thing you’re doing that’s upsetting to me?”

I’ve wrestled with my Impostor in the past. So many times. There have been times when I haven’t noticed her creeping into my thoughts. Those times, she has been able to drive a wedge between me and whatever goal I’m pushing toward. Those times are the most frustrating because I don’t recognize the pattern of self-denigration and self-denial until it’s too late to stop the thoughts and move forward. Sometimes I am able to see what I’m doing early enough in the pattern to shoulder past my Impostor and get shit done. The hard truth is that the Impostor wins these head-to-heads far too often. I am hoping that one day I’ll have done enough work on myself that, even if I still have to fight La Impostora, those fights will all fall into the second category, the push her aside and get back to work category.

In the case of my essay on The Rumpus, there were many opportunities for La Impostora to shove me backwards over a cliff. I had originally sent that essay to another publication. It was accepted, and then I received a contract that had some troubling language in it. I balked at signing, but my Impostor slapped me back: who was I to question what An Important Well-Respected Magazine wanted from me? She instructed me to sign and shut up. But I couldn’t get past my hesitation. I reached out to the mag’s editor to suggest some revisions to the contract language. By the time I learned that the magazine wouldn’t budge on the demands, I’d received an acceptance from The Rumpus … which was when La Impostora smacked me again: How dare I consider pulling my submission from The Magazine and moving forward with The Rumpus? And, too, there was no way I was good enough to be published on The Rumpus, so I should just forget all about that.

Sigh.

And now she’s back again, telling me to back down from the entire premise of my essay simply because someone read and respected what I said.

Listen (speaking entirely to myself here, but sometimes these things need to be said aloud and in public): I am a person who has the right to like or dislike whatever I like or dislike. I have the right to tell people to stop doing something that displeases or disturbs me … and they—because they are sovereign, fully-autonomous beings—have as much right to decide to do what I’ve asked as they have to tell me to shove off because they’re under no obligation to listen to anything I have to say.

I have no problem with folks taking issue with the point of that essay. I was ready for that, steeling myself against how hurt or angry it would make me. I was ready to defend myself, to haul out receipts and invite folks to step back. The few negative comments I’ve seen haven’t troubled me at all.

And maybe that’s a sign of progress in my fight against La Impostora. In the past, if someone questioned my position, I’d have been inclined to turn around and question my position right along with them. I mean, if something I said raised their eyebrows, I must have made a mistake, right? I’m not saying that I don’t make mistakes. I’m saying I no longer instantly assume that anyone questioning me must have the right of it.

I tend to think I’ll be fighting La Impostora forever. I don’t want that to be true, but it feels true. Seeing ways that I’m getting stronger against her helps. And I know I’ve written about Impostor Syndrome more than once, but the more I “talk out loud” about it here, the better I seem to get at recognizing the pattern before it derails me. If it seems annoyingly repetitive, you’re welcome to scroll on by. Imma keep working through.


I’m following Vanessa Mártir’s lead, she launched #52essays2017 after writing an essay a week in 2016 … and then deciding to keep going.
I’m months behind on my #GriotGrind, and it’s unlikely that I’ll write 52 essays by year’s end. But I’ve written more this year than in the last two combined, and that adds up to a solid WIN in my book! Get ready for #52essays2018!

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V is for: Vain, Vainglorious, Vanity

I mean, of course. I am outrageously vain, after all. Nothing if not vain. I talk about this all the time: how vain I am about my hair, my hands, my knitting, my … everything! Truly, the list goes on and on. I’ve embraced my vanity in recent years, make a point of telling folks just how vain I am.

But

I’m realizing tonight that my vanity is a bit of a sham.

Tonight I am working on a letter of recommendation … for myself. I am drafting a letter that I’ll send to the person who is doing the recommending, and she’ll tweak it to make it her own.

I’m doing this because I’m working on an application for a writing residency. I’m doing this because I refuse to let the deadline for this residency pass me by as I have done with several deadlines in the last few months. I’m doing this because I have to push myself in this way, force myself to apply for things. I’m doing this because I want this residency, because I want this gift of time.

But oh, how I also want to push this away.

I’ve known about this application and its soon-coming deadline for more than a month. Proceeded to ignore it for weeks. And when I did think about it, I decided that I couldn’t possibly get it, so therefore I shouldn’t apply. And when I thought about it again, I reminded myself how busy I am at work and how much I don’t have time to work on the application because I’m just too tired. And when I thought about some more, I realized the really what I needed to do was encourage all my eligible writer friends to apply because obviously this was perfect for them.

Yeah. All of that. Me, body-slamming myself again and again into the wall of Impostor Syndrome.

This is why I say my vanity is a sham. I walk around thinking I’m so in love with myself, but clearly that love is only on the surface, only for surface things. Because I also walk around running myself down, holding myself back from things I should be racing toward.

Sitting here tonight, trying to find a way to type out nice words about myself as a writer is crushing me. And the truth of that is breaking my heart. I shouldn’t be this difficult to say that I’m passionate about writing, that the project I’m proposing is a good and worthy one. Shouldn’t be. But is.

I know I have a lot of work to do with this. I guess what I’m realizing is that the work is that kind of every-minute-of-every-day work, that I have to pay closer-than-close attention so that I can see when I’m holding myself back, giving in to the inner critic. I have to be hyper vigilant … and make that my V word for today and every day.

Not an Impostor

How to see myself
to look uncritically,
to see all my flaws
not as flaws, just who I am.
To see my talents —
acknowledge that they exist,
that I do have skills,
that I have earned the things I have,
my jobs, my awards,
that I haven’t just been good
at fooling people.
How to see myself,
take my first real, honest look
silence my critic,
the one who uses my voice,
who knows all the ways
to bully, cut myself down.
This is behavior
so old, so painfully known.
This is who I am
to myself. I need to change,
find the vanity I claim.

_____

A chōka is a Japanese form poem with a specific syllable count per line. The shortest form of chōka  is: 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7. The 5- and 7-syllable lines can repeat as many times as needed. The poem’s end is signaled by the extra 7-syllable line. The final five lines can be used to summarize the body of the poem.