the woman wears a blazer, creased with perfect intention, as she stares at me. her hair is cut above her shoulders, neat and sleek. she sits in the small office that is decorated in that awkward uncomfortable gray space between sterile and homey that ends up looking like a stock image trying to convince you it's reality. her posture is straight, razor-sharp, and she looks up from her clipboard with just enough interest to let me know I still have a chance should I answer correctly. what are you passionate about, she asks. my first instinct is art. it sits poised in my throat, the go-to answer for this question which I have been asked many times. art is something that seems interesting; niche enough that I stand out in a different archetype from the norm, palatable enough that I'm not weird. it's safe, normal, exactly what she's looking for, probably. then, I consider photography; cinematography even. labeling myself as a filmmaker, a camera-savant, changes my impression. suddenly I am cool, deep, thoughtful, with oceans of soul and a dreamy downtown aloof assuredness that carries me easily through life like walking down a new york street. I study the woman and think about what she wants to see. what I should say. I have many hobbies. I pick them up like loose change on the sidewalk, little notions and pill-capsules of life that glean interest. I stuff them in my pocket and fantasize about a girl who looks like me but with a different hobby. I imagine what reception each skill will receive. how I will be adored. my mind scrolls through the options. I could say cooking. baking. writing. history. language. music. theatre. anthropology. sociology. mythology. culture. so many options, so many identities that I browse through like coats in a closet studying which silhouette I want to wear today, which silhouette will make the woman like me most. the admissions lady looks at me expectantly. she's been waiting for who knows how long now and her expression holds that professional impatience that is clearly running out and I scramble for an answer before I have lost her. I force a smile, adjust my sitting position, pick out my coat before I can second-guess and the word 'performing' feels numb on my tongue.
author notes: this poem is about realizing that you have no idea who you are. it's based on my own experience of realizing that all my hobbies are only hobbies because I imagine the reward, and how I only do things for validation and external approval, not for enjoyment. that's why the passion is performance, because everything is really a performance when you have no idea whose skin you're wearing and if you're the skinsuit or the person underneath it.
