But you don't seem to see

There's so much more to me

Than the roving troubadour

That everyone thinks I must be.

I'm not a perfect person, but I do think I have my merits. Growing up, I put a lot of stock in my high IQ, and while it's been years since I've believed that standardized test scores are an accurate measure of self-worth, I still get a little rush every time I perform flawlessly on a Mensa test. I appreciate my quick mind and my seemingly universal aptitude for learning. I love that I can pick up languages with ease and grasp complex mathematics with little difficulty. If there's a flaw in my intelligence, it's that I don't exercise it nearly enough.

And I love my creativity. I am not Whitman, Kerouac, Shakespeare, Rilke, Bashō, Millay, Donne, Gilbert, Strand, or Shelley. I am no Berlin, no Bernstein, no Sondheim, no Schubert, no Fauré, no Ravel, no Weelkes, no Hassler, no Poulenc or Lauridsen. Ellison I am not (would that the world could even survive two of Harlan), nor Eco, nor Dostoevsky, nor Faulkner, nor Márquez, nor Le Guin, nor Willis, nor Emschwiller. Not Varo, not Escher, not van Gogh, not Magritte, not Dürer, not even Warhol. But there, my self-effacement ends, for while I am none of these people, I would not like to be any one of them. My poetry, my songs, my paintings, and my prose... I don't know whether they will last the test of time, but they please me, and if, for a moment, they please others as well, that's all I can really ask. And I'm proud of what I've done. I'm proud that I was professionally published before my 21st birthday. I'm proud that I'm not quite thirty and I've written a novel and a musical, numerous short stories, poetry in multiple languages, rock songs and folk songs and a concerto for bassoon. I doubt my art will ever win awards, but I'm glad to have that as well. I'm glad that I can craft images with paint and pencil and pixels. I'm grateful when they are well-received. I'm thrilled that I have had paid commissions.

And while I know I am not an underwear model, I like my body as well. I love my long hair. I feel a surge of pride when people tell me how much I resemble my father. And if you want to know the truth, I'm pretty comfortable with my wheelchair as well. Sometimes I wonder, with all these wonderful things going for me, would I have the empathy for others that I feel today if I didn't have all the experiences that my disability has brought me, and the truth is I don't know. I'm sure I sound egocentric as it is going on about myself, but I wonder if I would've been insufferable if I didn't have this physical reality to face every day.

I write all this as a reminder to myself. Sometimes I get so lost in trying to accommodate other people that I forget what's important about myself. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly burdensome, I find myself wondering what the point of my existence is. And the point is here. No ignorant strangers or negligent, hurtful siblings can take that away the things I have done, am doing, will do.

So kindly forgive my indulgence and my tiny celebration of who I am. I hope you'll have a similar celebration for yourself.