Reading my own story

As a child, books were my favorite form of company. I remember my parents reading to me just about every night.  I began to read by myself at age four. My brother, who is seventeen months older, was learning to read and everything he did, I had to do too. From then on I devoured fiction, often favoring stories with animal protagonists. As I grew slightly older I shifted to realistic fiction-- books about other people's stories. And whether or not these characters' lives bore any resemblance to my own, I felt strong connections, and their stories became a part of me. Reflecting on my early college years, when I was a staunch vegan and enthusiastic student of anthropology, I realize now that for all my love-borne intentions and sensitivity, I was still negotiating my humanity through other people's stories. By junior year I began to feel like a tourist, like a demented scientist collecting and analyzing far-away peoples' oppressions and lived experiences. It was not until I took Race in America, and subsequently became an American Studies major, that I was forced to look critically at my own story, story informed by unacknowledged privileges. I continue to read other people's stories, but I do so responsibly, with intent, humility and commitment. I also think, speak and write about my own life. Human compassion begins with reading one's own story critically-- throughout all of its chapters.