Diamonds

Adrienne Rich tells us in “When We Dead Awaken” that although it may not be the intent, Virginia Woolf and other feminist writers wrote for women, but knew somewhere inside them that they would be received by a male audience and as such, their words were affected by this audience. To truly see, or to truly write, Rich says, one must be able to release the ties of obligation to the readers and simply write for writing.

The concept of writing for others is often identified: we write for teachers, for magazines, for newspapers, for children – rarely do we write for ourselves. This usually only happens in journals, diaries – the private world. Writing is, for many, a form of expression, a means of identity, so when we write for others, we are, in essence, writing our identities for others. This becomes a problem when we fail to remember our own selves, and simply assume the identity that we believe we should be shaped by.

People are as multi-faceted as diamonds: we have so many sides which all shine brightly. Then, there is the side that is never revealed to the world, the inside. I often drive myself crazy when I find myself holding different sides of myself to the light in different circumstances, and consequently fear that I may never be showing the “true” side of my self to anyone. And it’s not the not showing people this side that actually bothers me; instead, it’s the fact that I don’t know which side it is, I don’t know which side is my truest.

I force myself to fit different models, models of scholarly poise and interest, models of social grace, models of leadership, models of friendship, models of happiness, models of philosophy, models of playfulness, models of youth. But where are the models of self? Where is the one that is who I really am? Why does it seem that the moments that I begin to think define me as a self are polar opposites?

How can I have moments of strength contrasted with moments of weakness? How can I promise myself to do something, then witness myself not? Why do I so often feel that I am just a pair of eyes observing events play out, myself naught but a character in the world, taking on the presumptions I have proposed to others, struggling to be the prima donna in my play?

Sometimes, I feel that maybe I’m not a true diamond; maybe I’m a fake, maybe I’m a cubic zirconia: I look just the same as a diamond, but when broken down, I’m just pretending to be one. Maybe this is why the sides don’t match up; maybe I should stop pretending to that diamond; maybe I should just admit my phoniness.

And then I wonder, maybe the true self isn’t trapped in the inside, trying to break free of its glittering edges. What if it is these edges that pull together as if by the molecular force that actually does hold them together, to bond and then form the inside? Perhaps this is it; perhaps all the pieces aren’t reaching away from the center, but instead joining to form it. And this, I realize, must be how I truly am.

Mine is much the same as the struggle Rich and so many others grappled with in their search to define woman. During the feminist revolution, women were slowly given a wealth of possibilities to explore, a plethora of people to be. With all these options, they began to lose any identity – even that of the oppressed. They presented themselves differently to different people, and by doing this, they never allowed themselves to be themselves: the woman was always someone she was not, and all of this play-acting never allowed her happiness, for to be happy one must know one’s happiness, and to know this one must know her self.

Women began to strive to be everything once they were able to – the bubbling socialites, the conscientious mothers, the achieving professionals. They became powerful creatures. “Woman” became strength. Yet as so many women began to experience their “liberation,” it seems they lost – or at least failed to find – their own identities. They became trapped within the prism of their own beauty, within the confines of their diamonds of self.

The interesting thing about diamonds is that they are actually fairly ugly as gems until after they have been perfected through a long process. They, like women, are revealed at long last to become the end products that are what we think of today as diamonds. Still, they don’t really shine. It is that final exuberance they exert when they capture light, that final element, that brings the glimmer of completion.

Just as I struggle in my search to find myself, so too did the women search to find their own places in the world. Upon the “dawn” of their liberation, they were unable to identify with their inner truth. In managing to find these inner selves, they were able to become unified gems, works of beauty, and ideals for all. Women just needed to find their centers, and once they had, they indeed became as priceless as the diamond.

This assurance of self is what ultimately frees women from not just the traps of men, but also those of themselves. This is where I one day hope to find myself, for once I find all the different sides of my diamond, I will be able to sparkle with the assurance and the solidity of the diamond, complete in worth and beautiful in individuality.

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