Here is my verbal self-portrait. The text is an unrestrained channel of thought, and therefore describes my sense of self. I used the type-path tool and added a few shapes for visual aiding.
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Tyler
Constructing Identity
I am a representational form, a lower-case word. I am a composite of feeling, interest, experience, memory, and perception.
We are a race defined by culture and deadened by exposure. We show others who we are through action, word, and manner. We are only what our thought makes us.
I express my identity through my titles- miss, student, daughter. I express my identity by interacting. I express my identity in relation to others, but others do not define me. I am not a list of proper nouns. To an extent, my identity is shaped by others. Who I am around alters how I am construed; therefore, my expression is sheltered or exaggerated depending on how well my company knows me.
People who know me the least never see past my shell, yet presentation should never be neglected. Therefore, my attention to clothing is easily noticed. The outward appearances are always the most blatant. At Tyler, my artistic interest is also easily noticed, simply because of the context; I am an art school student. After talking with me, or overhearing me in conversation, it is apparent that I speak my mind and enjoy humor in all circumstances.
No aspect of my personality is hidden completely. I am not a serial rapist. The longer someone knows me or the more open a person is, the more we get from each other. This allows a person to experience my aura completely, and vice versa. Although nothing is hidden, some people will always miss certain aspects of me, or take longer to realize them than others. For some, misinterpretation causes someone to be blinded in my humor and not be able to see that I use humor for fun, solely. It can hide the total absence of malice in my heart.
Squeezed in between my relationships with people is my general love for everyone. My senses of equality, justice, and honesty are blatant to those who know me best.
Underneath my personality are the memories and the interests that have shaped me. Many have no idea that I am a musician, that I’ve been in rock bands and had shows. Others don’t know that I am an artist. This is because I do not proclaim myself in conversation. Therefore, the magnitude with which someone knows me is all relative and things can appear hidden to certain people, or at certain times. I show different aspects to different people. I am what they need at the time. I am a product of my environment. I am only what my surroundings make me.
I have been a dancer, a gymnast, a lover. I have been an athlete, a captain for bowling and soccer. I have been a teacher, a coach, and a pedestrian. I am a sister.
I have been sick, I have been mistreated, I have been evaluated. But, nothing external makes me different than you.
I like to avoid adults, feminists, and Main Line Jews. Chance being, the Main-Line-Jews stuck out. A dislike or disinterest of race or creed is always recognized as an unspoken defamation. Oops, I am a Catholic. I respect the lives of animals in their isolated and synchronized endeavors. I have no life story, but I understand the importance of curbs.
I don’t care if Pinocchio told a lie, if your ipod is broken, what I have for dinner. I care that the overlooking are overlooked, the petty are scrutinized, and the self-absorbed find each other. Here’s to looking for the lost.
I tell you not who I am, but how my mind has portrayed me now.
My train of thought is not easily noticed. The construction of identity has everything to do with chance occurrence and spontaneous reaction. Line me up with every other person at this school. Pick me out of a hat. Another chance is that one wouldn’t guess I will never vote for a woman president; I don’t think it’s a woman’s job. I am a gender role.
Art school is all about identity and individualized bullshit. You’re not more special than the person next to you. Your art is not amazing. You are from the same mold as everyone else, regardless of the material in which you are cast. You are only an image.
We live in a world where life is about death, through continual opposition of that theory. Nothing you ever do in your life matters at your deathbed. It doesn’t matter how many pictures you painted, how far you’ve traveled, what grade you got. You’re dying right now and the only thing important is whose life you’ve touched.
It’s a social responsibility to interact, to touch and be touched. I hold people to a higher standard than most. Every individual has social responsibilities. One should live with dignity, maintained through integrity. Honesty should not have to be questioned. If laws are broken, it should be for the sake of justice and the upkeep of a humane system. All of these traits should get us closer to respectful, tender living. Yet, somehow, in our delirious state of ignorance, we’re all just stuck with pain, memory, and the inability to act.
We are a race defined by culture and deadened by exposure. We show others who we are through action, word, and manner. We are only what our thought makes us.
I express my identity through my titles- miss, student, daughter. I express my identity by interacting. I express my identity in relation to others, but others do not define me. I am not a list of proper nouns. To an extent, my identity is shaped by others. Who I am around alters how I am construed; therefore, my expression is sheltered or exaggerated depending on how well my company knows me.
People who know me the least never see past my shell, yet presentation should never be neglected. Therefore, my attention to clothing is easily noticed. The outward appearances are always the most blatant. At Tyler, my artistic interest is also easily noticed, simply because of the context; I am an art school student. After talking with me, or overhearing me in conversation, it is apparent that I speak my mind and enjoy humor in all circumstances.
No aspect of my personality is hidden completely. I am not a serial rapist. The longer someone knows me or the more open a person is, the more we get from each other. This allows a person to experience my aura completely, and vice versa. Although nothing is hidden, some people will always miss certain aspects of me, or take longer to realize them than others. For some, misinterpretation causes someone to be blinded in my humor and not be able to see that I use humor for fun, solely. It can hide the total absence of malice in my heart.
Squeezed in between my relationships with people is my general love for everyone. My senses of equality, justice, and honesty are blatant to those who know me best.
Underneath my personality are the memories and the interests that have shaped me. Many have no idea that I am a musician, that I’ve been in rock bands and had shows. Others don’t know that I am an artist. This is because I do not proclaim myself in conversation. Therefore, the magnitude with which someone knows me is all relative and things can appear hidden to certain people, or at certain times. I show different aspects to different people. I am what they need at the time. I am a product of my environment. I am only what my surroundings make me.
I have been a dancer, a gymnast, a lover. I have been an athlete, a captain for bowling and soccer. I have been a teacher, a coach, and a pedestrian. I am a sister.
I have been sick, I have been mistreated, I have been evaluated. But, nothing external makes me different than you.
I like to avoid adults, feminists, and Main Line Jews. Chance being, the Main-Line-Jews stuck out. A dislike or disinterest of race or creed is always recognized as an unspoken defamation. Oops, I am a Catholic. I respect the lives of animals in their isolated and synchronized endeavors. I have no life story, but I understand the importance of curbs.
I don’t care if Pinocchio told a lie, if your ipod is broken, what I have for dinner. I care that the overlooking are overlooked, the petty are scrutinized, and the self-absorbed find each other. Here’s to looking for the lost.
I tell you not who I am, but how my mind has portrayed me now.
My train of thought is not easily noticed. The construction of identity has everything to do with chance occurrence and spontaneous reaction. Line me up with every other person at this school. Pick me out of a hat. Another chance is that one wouldn’t guess I will never vote for a woman president; I don’t think it’s a woman’s job. I am a gender role.
Art school is all about identity and individualized bullshit. You’re not more special than the person next to you. Your art is not amazing. You are from the same mold as everyone else, regardless of the material in which you are cast. You are only an image.
We live in a world where life is about death, through continual opposition of that theory. Nothing you ever do in your life matters at your deathbed. It doesn’t matter how many pictures you painted, how far you’ve traveled, what grade you got. You’re dying right now and the only thing important is whose life you’ve touched.
It’s a social responsibility to interact, to touch and be touched. I hold people to a higher standard than most. Every individual has social responsibilities. One should live with dignity, maintained through integrity. Honesty should not have to be questioned. If laws are broken, it should be for the sake of justice and the upkeep of a humane system. All of these traits should get us closer to respectful, tender living. Yet, somehow, in our delirious state of ignorance, we’re all just stuck with pain, memory, and the inability to act.
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