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- 2.
Steinberg 2
This was a Skype conversation that I had with my best friend since elementary school in
my freshman year of college. On Arthur Aron’s Inclusion of Other in the Self Scale, I would
rank my relationship with her as a three. When we were in school together, I probably would
have said five or six, but now that I’m studying English and Writing in upstate New York and
she’s interning at the Philadelphia Airport as a part of her Environmental Engineering program, I
probably see her maybe four to six times a year, and we only talk (persontoperson, Internet, or
otherwise) maybe once a month.
When we grew up, we were fairly similar, and everyone around us seemed to tell us we
were more similar than we actually were. Our school system had a class––all the way from first
grade to twelfth––created for students whose IQs were over 140, and we were both placed in that
course. Because her last name starts with Sta and mine with Ste, we always sat next to each
other, and we always worked together on projects. In the fifth grade, the teacher (who taught all
of the special “Humanities” classes) left to teach a regular fourth grade class, and the next
teacher confused us all the time. My assignments ended up in her cubby and hers ended up in my
- 3.
Steinberg 3
folders and I think once she even tried to conduct a parentteacher conference about me with her
mom. That’s continually seemed very strange to me because we don’t look much alike––she’s
perpetually tan and I wear glasses. Her style at that time was to wear clashing colors and patterns
while mine was to wear whatever was clean and weatherappropriate. But I guess the fact that
we’re both “smart,” had long brown hair, and constantly worked together bonded us enough to
make us interchangeable.
Regardless, this conversation sticks out in my mind because I still wonder why she would
want to be an inanimate object. Yes, I recognize that she’s not actually wishing to forgo her
current existence as a human being and turn into a washing machine, but what puzzles me is why
would the thought that a washing machine, out of all of the inanimate objects/home goods she
could pick, would fit her personality best. Why would she not pick a type of car, or something
living, like an animal? Maybe I can’t wrap my mind around it because I can’t get over my own
self and can’t appreciate that she sees herself in that way.
And then there’s the fact that because we have selves, we can impose what we think
makes us individual on anything. Literally anything. Actually, that’s what most makeover shows
are based on––people see clothes and accessories as things that fit their personalities. In an
extreme example, on What Not to Wear, there was an episode about a woman who only wore
things with turtles on them because she just loved turtles and she wanted to express that to
anyone who saw her. She does say that she doesn’t know a lot about clothing, but even still, the
episode was released in 2011, so she had a lot of other options for outfits and things to wear.
A common thing to hear on makeover shows, when a person tries something on or talks
about a new hairstyle, is “it’s not me.” I’m not sure if the turtle lady ever said that, but when
- 5.
Steinberg 5
Ramble #2: Personality Tests
I am introverted, quiet, selfconcerned, gluttonous, lazy, pretty, active, cute, and
nonthreatening. But do these words truly describe my whole self and me as a person? No,
because that’s impossible, due to the fact that we place alternative meanings on words that we
use commonly and because we created the idea of having a self. Not to mention that there’s
contradictions and subjectivity galore in the words I chose––how can I be both lazy and active?
(Because I take at least 10,000 steps a day, I lift weights four times a week, and I’m also half
marathon prepping, but I also sit at my desk for several hours a day. I also like to procrastinate
and leave my work until the last minute because who wants to work now while you can do it
later?) Why do I consider myself cute and pretty and not absolutely stunning or maybe even
ugly? (Because this is what society and the people around me have told me. Recently, I talked to
my former roommate, who’s still one of my best friends, and she was the one who told me I was
nonthreatening and cute. We weren’t talking about this directly, we were joking about what
would happen if we ordered take out and answered the door with a sword. But wouldn’t my
cuteness and nonthreatening nature help me find a boyfriend/significant other? Meanwhile I’ve
never been in a romantic relationship.)
Plus, does it really matter how I define myself, or even if I try to define myself at all? No
matter how many words I used or which ones I picked, nothing would ever be able to explain
every single aspect of myself to another person or even to my own self. Personality tests
showcase this perfectly––no one of these, whether you take the Big Five test, the Myers Briggs
test, or Which Hogwarts House Would You Be In on Buzzfeed perfectly summarizes who you
are because they ask a limited amount of questions and there’s no way you pick the same
- 6.
Steinberg 6
answers all of the time. The main reason why they exist is for people to try to give themselves a
more stable and secure sense of who they think they are and therefore divide themselves into
groups of people who supposedly have the same personalities as them. And then there are tests
that are based off of the original personality test results, like “What’s Your Animal Personality
Type?” on Buzzfeed, and many corporations use your result in order to train you in the best
possible way.
Up until this point in my life, I placed so much importance on the fact that I considered
myself an introvert because every single personality test I’ve ever taken has put me as 80%
introverted or higher. I told myself that I knew myself better than the average person knows him
or herself, and therefore, I could and should do everything I wanted myself. Who needs friends
or family when you can get your own job and make your own money? It’s no fun going out to
parties or having friends over when you can sit in front of your computer, eat snacks, block out
everything else around you, and not be judged for your actions. It certainly doesn’t help that I’m
an only child and my parents weren’t around all of the time, but because these personality tests
told me that I was introverted, I think it pushed me to revert even further into myself and
promoted social anxiety. I can’t gain confidence in my public speaking skills because every time
I’m forced to present (because I’ve never been asked to make a speech, which is an issue that can
be analyzed in itself), I tell myself that I won’t be good at it because I’m introverted, and
therefore, when put into the spotlight, I won’t be able to function.
Trying to define our personalities only leads to more issues, and it doesn’t truly matter
what kind of person you think you are. Act how you want to act and stop caring about what other
facets of you or other people think. While we can’t completely remove ourselves from the
- 8.
Steinberg 8
Ramble #3: On Birthdays
Recently, I turned 22, (I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22, everything’ll be
alright if we keep dancing through…) and to be honest, I didn’t really feel much different. Just
another day older, living the same life, but enjoying all of the well wishes coming my way from
both people I talk to on a regular basis and who I haven’t spoken to since high school.
Birthdays, in our culture, have become a thing to celebrate because they make us more
arrogant. In school, elementary school in particular, it’s almost required for you to bring in treats
for the rest of the class, and in continued years, you feel like you have to mention that it’s your
birthday to get some positive attention that you wouldn’t normally receive. Plus, if you have a
“landmark” birthday (110, 13 or 15 (Bar/Bat Mitzvah or a Quinceñera), 16, 18, 21, decades
from there), it’s become customary to have a party in your honor just because you happen to
officially turn one year older on that day. And if your birthday isn’t on the weekend, then your
party probably won’t even be on the actual anniversary of the day you were born. Birthdays
generally build our confidence because they make you feel like you are the star no matter where
you happen to be on that particular day.
One person, on Yahoo! Answers, just so happened to ask how Buddhists celebrate their
birthdays.
- 9.
Steinberg 9
Clearly, there’s a lot going on in these answers, and while I don’t know where these
people are from, I can only assume that they’re Americans or at least in a country whose national
language is English because even though the grammar isn’t perfect (Yahoo! Answers is on the
Internet, after all), it’s all readable and it all makes sense to me. Regardless, none of these people
are actually Buddhists, and therefore, no one really answers her question. It’s also worth adding
that no one, Buddhist, Christian, Jewish, whatever, celebrates his or her birthday in the same
- 11.
Steinberg 11
Ramble #4: My Inability to Write Good Poetry
I can’t write good poetry and I don’t know why. My mind and my emotions certainly
aren’t “ordered,” because I am a human being, and I have experienced death, physical pain,
sadness, and challenging living conditions, just to name a few disordering experiences that could
lead me to write poetry. But yet, when I sit down and say, “OK, I’m going to write a poem,”
either nothing comes out or it compares to what a third grader would write. In my sophomore
year, when I took Intro to Creative Writing, I decided that I would write a collection of poetry
instead of a short story to get myself out of my comfort zone and because I thought it would
require less work. Well, it was less words on the page, but it was a pain in the ass to get them
there and then to revise them. Looking back, I’d say that my best poem was “The Cold.”
I hate the cold
Because it always manages to sink its claws
Into the mere centimeter of skin
Between the warmth of your pocket
And the length of your sleeve.
It sinks into your clothes
So that when you take them off
They are always a few degrees colder
Than you would like to be.
It makes you shiver and shake
With anticipation of the next warm thing you’ll ingest
And it breathes down your neck
So when the door closes behind you
You can breathe comfortably again
Except it takes a few moments
So that when you brush against your coat or boots
The claws come snapping back
And you never can quite breathe easily.
- 12.
Steinberg 12
“Why would you decide to go to college in upstate New York, then?” You might say.
“Fuck you,” I would reply. Well, not really, I’d probably actually say something like “I
liked Ithaca’s campus, curriculum, and community best, my aunt went here, and I can deal with
the cold knowing that it’s temporary.” But what is this poem about aside from the fact that I
don’t like the cold? Walking from one place to another when it’s thirty degrees or less outside
doesn’t make me feel sad, depressed, or much of anything. Just a little annoyed, because I would
much rather show up to a class or the gym or my room without snot rolling down my face and
my skin getting drier and drier every time I happen to walk outside. And writing this poem didn’t
really help me organize those feelings; in fact, it might have exacerbated them. My bed is right
next to the window in my room, so when I woke up on Monday morning and saw that it was
snowing, I just wanted to roll over and hibernate until it was at least fifty degrees and sunny
outside. In my first class of the day, I even broke down and cried in part because it was snowing.
(I am also quite stressed because I have to keep up with and finish school, I have to find a job, I
have to deal with my family and graduation plans, and I am running a half marathon on Sunday
and I sure as hell do not want to run it in the snow or cold.) Maybe in attempting to confront my
issues with the cold and giving into it and making it less of a threat, I instead built up more of a
wall and worked to reject the fact that upstate New York winters are generally cold and snowy.
Yes, I wrote this poem two years ago, and no, it’s not about anything super serious or
incredibly disordering. It’s not even all that great, but it’s the best poem I’ve ever written
because it’s about something that does affect me. And while I can write nonfiction about the
experiences I’ve had with more extreme disordering experiences such as death and physical pain,
I find myself unable to write poetry about them, and I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s just
