Tag Archives: identity

In a Man’s Voice: The Jersey by Vernon Wildy, Jr. | Esse Diem

Middle school started to show me that football could put a boy at the top of the popularity totem pole.  The players always seemed to have the prettiest girls talking to them and they got the most attention around school.  That was especially true when game day arrived.  The team members always had a tradition of wearing their jerseys at school all throughout that day.  The school would be dotted with light blue jerseys bouncing around campus.  Everybody got excited for the games, especially if they were playing at home.  Those days we didn’t have to ride the school bus home.  We could stay after school, watch the game, and have our parents pick us up after the game was over. But when you saw those blue jerseys around campus, they were not being worn by the players.

In a lot of cases, those jerseys were being worn by girls.

via In a Man’s Voice: The Jersey by Vernon Wildy, Jr. | Esse Diem.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Essays on Childhood: In a Man's Voice, Writing

Broken Shells by Melanie Bartol Jones | Esse Diem

Once I strolled down the beach with my mom when I was a little girl. We were looking for shells after a long day of salty air and strong sun and my eyes were tired. To be honest, I did not really want to be there except my mom and I always looked for shells together and there was no where else to go. I kept staring at the grains of sand and could only find thin, cracked shells that had been tossed one too many times in the powerful arms of the ocean.

Although my mom did not want to pick those shells up, I thought they were the most beautiful ones. Their colors were the most vibrant and I imagined that if they could talk, the broken ones would have the most interesting story.

via Broken Shells by Melanie Bartol Jones | Esse Diem.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Essays on Childhood: Creative. Nonfiction. Writers., Writing

This World Is Not My Home by Jeremy Paden (part 8) | Esse Diem

After a life spent wandering from place to place in service of the church, my wife, kids, and I now live an hour from Cane Ridge, the very spot where our movement began. For four years we’ve called Kentucky home. I’ll always long for the Caribbean, always feel like moving after a year or two, always think the only real mountains in this world are the Sangre de Cristos.

via This World Is Not My Home by Jeremy Paden (part 8) | Esse Diem.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Essays on Childhood: In a Man's Voice, Writing

“The Puzzle I Am to Myself” – Writing on Childhood Experience & Identity

atomsofthought is a blog described as “Essays on travel, identity, literature, and philosophy.”  In a short time I’ve come to eagerly anticipate these posts landing in my in-box.  The writer, Nick Bromley, demonstrates a transparency and a willingness to seek answers while still being comfortable in the unknown that I find truly fascinating and effective.

In his May 9 post titled Gotta Keep Moving; The Puzzle I Am to Myself, Bromley remembers a specific childhood game with a friend that suddenly brings a hairline crack into a mysterious aspect of his own identity and perception of himself.

Enjoy this brief and open-ended reflection (shared with permission of the author), and consider how it may expand your own ideas around putting childhood experience into words:

Gotta Keep Moving; The Puzzle I Am to Myself

The 747′s engines roar to life. I raise the window shade and peer out at the flatness of DFW International Airport. The plane throttles forward and lifts from the runway. I leave the ground. I leave home, museum of my childhood, repository of first memories, first loves, first losses, the place where tiny fragments of me dangle from tree limbs I once climbed as a boy or rest alongside beloved scaly pets I buried in the yard.

Sometimes I feel like I’m smeared across time and space, scattered among people I’ve known well or barely spoken to. I forget myself sometimes, then a person or an object from the past jogs my memory. They tell me who I was with a knowing look or a trivial comment: “Gotta keep moving,” says Jon from elementary school, referring to one afternoon seventeen years ago when we played H-O-R-S-E together in my driveway. He had to sink a fade-away jump shot or else incur an ‘R’. “Gotta keep moving,” I said to Jon that day as he turned toward the basket and sent the ball gliding through the hoop.

Now, with that one statement, Jon hands me a piece of the puzzle I am to myself, and I remember. I remember that we were once twelve, he and I, and I feel the zest and confusion of that age. I’m twelve again. I’m twelve and I’m twenty-nine and many ages besides. And for a moment, that somehow makes sense.

“Gotta keep moving.”

Image credit: A vintage puzzle piece pin, available from ME2Designs on Etsy.

1 Comment

Filed under Writers