Little boxes

A lot of my stories look at identity. Sometimes it’s the whole picture: “Who am I?”; sometimes it’s just something in passing, a character’s struggle with an aspect of their personality they’re not comfortable with.

I think part of that is that I’m often struggling with my own identity. The genetic heritage my face declares vs. the culture I grew up in vs. the way I think of myself. The ways I don’t match the stereotypes of the gender I was born with vs. the ways I do. The boxes people put me in vs. the boxes I put myself in.

I know, like any human, I categorize and generalize to make the world understandable, but all the same, I hate categories and generalizations. I hate that people look at me and think that I am a certain type of person just because of what they see. Oh, I know it’s “just human,” but I don’t like it all the same. I really don’t like the way people tell me what I ought to think and believe just because of what my bits are, what my cultural background is or what area I come from. The world is full of all the shades of grey. We may have to think in black and white to function, but forgetting that the world is shaded is a dangerous thing, I think.

My favorite stories and movies and tv shows are the ones that remember this about people, and I hope I can remember it while writing it into my stories, too.

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