Friday, October 03, 2008
Who am I?
Last night I dreamed I was sitting at Toni Morrison’s feet. She was reading aloud a chapter from a novel she’d just finished writing about a young girl growing up in a faraway country. I marveled at Morrison's brilliance and wondered how much her evocative imagery was aided by the richness of her cultural roots. (I briefly envied her that.) Then she handed me the book and asked me to read to her. As I recited the words, I kept thinking to myself, "How can anyone write so beautifully? Where does a story like this come from?" I no sooner asked these questions than, still fast asleep, I "woke up" with an epiphany: This wondrous story had come from somewhere inside of me! And then I had another, more electrifying thought: Is it possible that I still don't know, even after all these years, who I am?