A Credo on Life & Writing
The following is a personal reflection I wrote at age 18 to describe the impact writing has had on my life.
A wise man once said, “Be—don’t try to become.” But when I look back on my life, I realize it is full of becomings. In 6th grade I became a keeper, standing with my back to a goal, hands ready to fly should a soccer ball come my way. In 8th grade I became obsessed with the color purple, and insisted on painting my room and my nails and my wardrobe with purple of every shade. In 9th grade I became a night person but not by choice, staying up into the morning with long hours of work, and only later realizing that the best conversations are after the sun has set and before it rises again. In 10th grade I became a photographer, bringing my camera with me everywhere and photographing anything that looked beautif,ul to me through what felt like new eyes. In 11th grade I became eager to fall in love, to share with someone the thoughts and ideas that floated around in my head and to be adored for them. By the time I reached 12th grade, I became uncertain. Uncertain about growing up, uncertain about what might lie ahead, uncertain about the person I’m becoming. Now, as a First-Year at the University of Virginia, I know that I have not always been the girl I am today. So while I will always be Rory, I haven’t always been this Rory, and I’m not yet the Rory I’ll one day be.
In Gaelic, the language of my Irish ancestors, Rory means either red king or red hills. Long before I could write or even read, I used to imagine handsome rulers with red robes leading Ireland to victory in brutal wars, staining the hills red with blood so the two meanings of my name could fit together neatly in one story. As a little girl, I was always putting together stories like this, trying to connect the pieces of a puzzle through dreaming up one outlandish tale or another. I kept them all stored away in my head, saving them, perhaps for later. Then, I learned to write my name.
As with most children, my name was the first thing I learned to write. Not long after, I learned to pen it in cursive. I scrawled my name so that the letters all connected and attached a heart to the Y at the very end. This would become my signature, heart included, for the next ten years. Although today I no longer sign everything with the heart, I still include it in letters to my grandmother, and have to consciously remind myself to not do it on checks.
As with most children, my name was the first thing I learned to write. Not long after, I learned to pen it in cursive. I scrawled my name so that the letters all connected and attached a heart to the Y at the very end. This would become my signature, heart included, for the next ten years. Although today I no longer sign everything with the heart, I still include it in letters to my grandmother, and have to consciously remind myself to not do it on checks.
What began with a signature spiraled into so much more. Learning how to write opened my eyes to a whole new way to communicate my ideas. All of the crazy stories floating around in my head now had a place to be kept so that I could remember them forever.
Many long nights followed where I’d stay up late writing to fill blank pages. I’d write about princesses and beggars, twins and orphans, magic and mystery. In middle school I got my first computer and this transitioned me from writing on paper to typing up my stories. My creativity bloomed—now, I could go back to edit my work instead of coming up with something perfectly the first time. And yet, despite the fact that I’d always loved stories, writing prose had never felt like the perfect fit for me. In my junior year I discovered the medium that did fit: poetry. Poetry is a way for me to share something implicitly about myself in a way that prose does not allow. In poems I can be abstract or to the point—it doesn’t matter, because in poetry, anything goes.
Many long nights followed where I’d stay up late writing to fill blank pages. I’d write about princesses and beggars, twins and orphans, magic and mystery. In middle school I got my first computer and this transitioned me from writing on paper to typing up my stories. My creativity bloomed—now, I could go back to edit my work instead of coming up with something perfectly the first time. And yet, despite the fact that I’d always loved stories, writing prose had never felt like the perfect fit for me. In my junior year I discovered the medium that did fit: poetry. Poetry is a way for me to share something implicitly about myself in a way that prose does not allow. In poems I can be abstract or to the point—it doesn’t matter, because in poetry, anything goes.
And so I believe in long nights. Long nights spent emptying my heart and filling blank pages. I believe in poetry. Poetry as a means of self-reflection, of self-loving, and sometimes even self-loathing. I believe in growing up. Maturing, finding my values and myself in the pieces that I write. I believe in staying young. Preserving the essence of childhood through telling stories and holding onto my dreams. I believe in change. The transition from prose to poetry, or repainting my room purple to remind myself how easy it is to make something old new again. And at the same time, I believe in consistency—like the one thing I’ve had forever. My name.
As the years have passed I’ve become the Rory who loves to take pictures, the Rory who can’t sing, the Rory who was stuck in goal because she couldn’t play the field, the Rory who was a vegetarian for 40 days, the Rory with the brother who swims, the Rory who’s often too quiet, the Rory who went to private school, the Rory who came from public school, the Rory who loves the color purple, the Rory in Converse all summer long, the Rory with flowers and feathers in her hair, the Rory who lifeguards, the Rory who believes in love, and most significantly, the Rory who has always, always been writing.
But have I sacrificed being myself all of this time, just so that I could become the person I thought I wanted to be?
For the past three years, I’ve worn my name on a necklace like a nametag almost every day. Is it in style? people ask me. Do you wear it to let strangers know your name? they wonder. Each time I’m asked, I simply shrug the questions off—because I’ve never cared enough to ask myself why. But now, as I really examine the “why”, I realize it’s not a complicated or deep answer. There is something so beautiful to me about cursive letters, how they curl together almost like the way I first learned to sign my name, the way I still sign my name. I wear my name on a necklace because as a writer I find the beauty in letters and the words they make up, and my name is the only word that has belonged to me since before I was born.
As the years have passed I’ve become the Rory who loves to take pictures, the Rory who can’t sing, the Rory who was stuck in goal because she couldn’t play the field, the Rory who was a vegetarian for 40 days, the Rory with the brother who swims, the Rory who’s often too quiet, the Rory who went to private school, the Rory who came from public school, the Rory who loves the color purple, the Rory in Converse all summer long, the Rory with flowers and feathers in her hair, the Rory who lifeguards, the Rory who believes in love, and most significantly, the Rory who has always, always been writing.
But have I sacrificed being myself all of this time, just so that I could become the person I thought I wanted to be?
For the past three years, I’ve worn my name on a necklace like a nametag almost every day. Is it in style? people ask me. Do you wear it to let strangers know your name? they wonder. Each time I’m asked, I simply shrug the questions off—because I’ve never cared enough to ask myself why. But now, as I really examine the “why”, I realize it’s not a complicated or deep answer. There is something so beautiful to me about cursive letters, how they curl together almost like the way I first learned to sign my name, the way I still sign my name. I wear my name on a necklace because as a writer I find the beauty in letters and the words they make up, and my name is the only word that has belonged to me since before I was born.
As I reflect on how one wise man’s words, “Be—don’t try to become,” apply to my life, I realize that after all of these years of growing, of changing, of becoming, I haven’t at all sacrificed being myself. Of course, I have regrets. But doesn’t everybody? Today, I’m still discovering what I love, stumbling upon the things that will make me a truer version of who I’m meant to be, of who I’m meant to become. And is there a difference, really? Between being and becoming, as long as I’m doing what makes me happy? Sometimes we know where we want to be long, long before we get there. I don’t know, and finally, I am ready to embrace this uncertainty.
Behind every name there is a story, and behind every story there is a writer. I am that writer, seeking to capture in my stories and poems and essays the essence of the Rory I’m becoming.
And the Rory I’ve always been.
Behind every name there is a story, and behind every story there is a writer. I am that writer, seeking to capture in my stories and poems and essays the essence of the Rory I’m becoming.
And the Rory I’ve always been.