When rejection becomes identity

As I child, I built an identity on being alternative. My “not-like-other-girls” attitude was, at best, performative feminism, and at worst, downright misogynistic (other girls are the best, okay). Now, I laugh because the whole act was really my inner self screaming, “I’m GAY!”

My sense of identity has often been attached to my perceived position as an outsider. I always feel a bit out of place. This is equal parts the human condition and my own lived experience being a bit of a weirdo.

As an artist, rejection comes in droves. I have an entire folder in my email with rejection emails I’ve gathered from years of submitting dance works and writing. Don’t worry, I am not enough of a masochist to save all of them, but I do save ones that offer helpful insight or feedback on my work. The rest get deleted, believe me.

Once, I asked for feedback on a rejected dance piece, and the response was so hurtful that I thought about giving up on this thing altogether. (In hindsight, that same piece got me my first grant funding, so I am really glad I didn’t throw in the towel.)

It can be easy to play the part of the rejected artist. It’s far easier to cower in my own self-pity than to try again, or to acknowledge the “yes” of all sizes I have received in my life. When I count them, I feel beyond grateful (and lucky) to be so blessed with opportunities.

Now that I’m approaching grad school (more on that here), I’ve been thinking about how much rejection has glommed onto my own identity. I imagine this is not an experience I am alone in (unless there’s someone living a fantasy out there, I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who has never experienced rejection in their life).

In the past, I’ve responded to rejection by wrapping it into my narrative about myself. While I loved my undergraduate experience, I struggled to get recognition for my choreography, so I crafted stories about why my work was never selected. When my path to coming out to my religious community was difficult, I narrativized the rejection I experienced (though very real) into my perception of myself. These stories became part of the fabric of who I am, far more than I would like to admit.

It’s easier for me to make art about pain. I think this is also true for many artists. The ratio of love songs to breakup songs always tips toward the latter. But I am curious about the alternative. What is it to make art about sweetness? What is it to build an identity around acceptance?

I choreographed a work on a group of teens recently, set to my favorite poem by Andrea Gibson: “Angel of the Get-Through.” Whenever I teach young dancers about poetry and dance-making, I tell them about my poetry professor from LMU, Sarah Maclay, who always said, “Every poem should have some rust and some lace.”

I tell my students that songs that are sugary sweetly happy are never very satisfying (and usually for very young children), while a breakup song that is nothing but a dark tragedy would also be something they probably wouldn’t listen to over and over again. The song that has a bit of both rust and lace, pain and sweetness, makes for a more compelling experience for the listener.

More recently, I have found myself wanting to be softer as I move through the world. I don’t want to lead only with rust and rejection. I don’t want the first word on the tip of my tongue to be “no.”

I lived in New England for the past five years, and the time taught me so much about communication. In my experience, the stereotypes about New Englanders being abrupt and brutally honest rang true. Though I was raised on the West Coast, I am the child of a Midwest family, and my move to the East Coast taught me so much about direct communication.

Whenever I try to describe my experience living in big cities versus rural areas, I share that in a small town, it’s polite and kind to make small talk with a customer service employee at the grocery store or a pharmacy. In cities, moving quickly without making small talk is also its own courtesy — to the employees and to the line behind you.

I think there has to be a middle ground here too, one where I can both remember my pharmacist’s name and also be efficient enough to be polite.

I’m making my own move to the Midwest now, and since relocating in December, I am constantly shocked at how nice people are here. Sometimes, this experience is unsettling (my first thought is often, what are they saying about me behind my back?). But mostly, it’s just been … nice. It’s made me want to be a kinder person.

I’d love to be able to braid the directness of my years in Massachusetts with the kindness I am experiencing in the Midwest. If I could wish anything for my communities, it would be some combination of these two things. A bit of rust and a bit of lace.

I have a manuscript of a second book of poetry sitting on my computer now. I am really proud of it. I’ve submitted it to nearly 20 publishers and received a “no” from most of them. I’m still hopeful.