A Bagel in a Plate Full of Onion Rolls

Sitting in class in the first grade, I’d look around, observe my classmates and notice how most of them seemed to blend in: the way they spoke and the style of their clothes was similar, their haircuts, the stories they would share with the rest of the class about activities they would do with their family, places they went to visit, etc. Ok, so I should probably mention that I was one of the very few Haitian kids in my class… and that most white kids could barely notice that I was in fact non-white.

I felt different and I looked at the other kids and marvelled at how their similitude was an asset, whereas my physical traits made me stick out. I wasn’t ostracized by my peers, actually it was quite the opposite: I had a lot of friends, but at times I felt examined by my classmates and felt like “the Other” whose traits are fascinating simply because they are atypical to the naïve mind of a child. Unfortunately at six years old I believed that being different because of my skin colour, my hair texture, my accent and my nationality put me at a disadvantage: I couldn’t blend in, I didn’t really “belong”. Blending in a crowd is safe and comforting because, in a sea of people, your face is easily interchangeable, there’s no risk of making a lasting impression, is there?

Flash forward 20 years. My thoughts on making lasting impressions have changed dramatically: I hate blending in a crowd: I wanna stand out. I hate the thought of having a personality so beige that people won’t make a mental note of who I am. I love how passionate I get when I talk about the New England Patriots to a group of women whose only reference to a dynasty involves Joan Collins. Nevertheless, being a student in a program where you share a similar educational background and similar aspirations with your peers (wanting to work in publishing, to create your own magazine, become a book editor, a published author) is comforting. It’s good to be surrounded by like-minded individuals, right? But what if, as you embark on your professional career, you start feeling like a speck in a sky full of stars? Like a drop of water in the sea? Like you’re no longer the bagel in a plate full of onion rolls?

Let me explain. In Funny Girl, Mr. Keeney fires Fanny Brice because she didn’t blend in with the other dancing glamazons. Fanny was appalled by his decision; she was confident that her stage presence and personality had a distinct flavour that was unparalleled. Her oomph made her unique and that was her driving force: honing her oomph.

I fear that my oomph, the same kind that Fanny shamelessly celebrates, is dissipating. This week I caught myself feeling like another face in the crowd, feeling like I might be coasting through the semester because I just want to get it over with, that I’m not doing as much as my peers when it comes to establishing myself as a promising author with a fresh style by publishing a butt load of articles online. In a way, feeling outshined by the feats of my peers, I devalued my unique potential for greatness. What I had to offer didn’t seem that interesting anymore. How did this happen? Where did my oomph go? Have I become, dare I say it, ordinary?

Is this a lesson in humility? Maybe. Hey, maybe it’s the norm to not always feel like you’ve got something exceptional to offer to the literary world. Maybe most authors feel like they should just adhere to an established guide on how to make it in publishing, follow certain rules to make sure they get proper recognition. Maybe doing whatever other authors are doing is safer than paving your own way. Hmm.

Is it customary to go on, day after day, and not feel special? ‘Cause I’m a be honest, I ain’t feelin’ it. I mean, I take great pleasure in being a bagel in a plate full of onion rolls: that’s what I’m all about, so if somehow I’ve become yet another bland onion roll… No way, I refuse. This must be a phase. I’m not meant to be ordinary and tasteless. I can’t be: I’m cinnamon raisin, bringing a kick to your morning routine. I’m sorry, but this semi-funk I’m going through has got to end. I’m a bagel, point blank.