Because I’m noisy (or something), I adore this book tag and I’m so very thankful to LaRonda@FlyingPaperbacks for tagging me! Now I just hope that I won’t scare you (too-much) with the 7 about myself I’ll share today *hides*
- If you are nominated, you’ve been awarded the Versatile Blogger Award
- Thank the person who gave you this award
- Include a link to their blog
- Select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly
- Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award
- Finally, tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself
Seven things about me
I’m biracial but you’d never know (and that saddens me)
The truth is, I’ve always felt like an impostor when it comes to ethnicity, because even though my dad was kabyle, I’m so white passing, it’s not even funny : I’ve got red hair and green eyes, and the only thing that makes people question my origin is my last name. Even then, actually, you wouldn’t believe how far people can go to make sense of what they see : even though my name is a well-known kabyle name, people have been giving it nonsensical meanings since forever, because French people can’t wrap their head around a white kabyle, and we can’t have that, can we? Above everything, though, the reason why I refer to myself as white, especially in racial discourse, is simple : I’ve benefited from white privilege my whole life. My dad had complicated relationships with his family, too, which didn’t help. I’ve always felt that it wouldn’t be fair of me to talk over POC who experience racism regularly when the only micro-agressions I’ve ever lived are linked to my name, and my name only. At least that’s how I feel, and I’m only talking about me here. Far from me the wish to police anyone. Yet as it is, it makes me feel as if I was denying my dad’s heritage. I don’t know where I belong. Of course it saddens me. However, I just can’t ignore my privileges as someone who’s perceived as a white European. So I won’t.
I’ve always known that I was hyperactive, but I had to wait my 32 years old birthday to learn that I had ADHD (and that explains so much)
The sentence above says it all, really. My diagnostic is still recent and I have to adjust the perceptions of myself on so many things. The shame and the impostor syndrome are so rooted in me and have influenced so many parts of my life that I’m still struggling to see myself through different eyes. The relief, though, is everything.
I love reading stories to my 10 years old students…
… and I hate when people say that it’s useless given that they know how to read. Seriously, I could spend one hour explaining how irrelevant this remark is, it annoys me so much!
I don’t know how to whistle. Or how to snap my fingers, for that matter
You can’t even imagine HOW MANY TIMES people have been trying to teach me both things but I just… cannot do it, lol. I’ve accepted it as a permanent failure *shrugs*
All my green plants die
Every. fucking. Time. It’s like a curse, really, so never gift any plant to me, it’s for the best.
I hate insects with passion
Yes, even butterflies. THE LEGS, Y’ALL. The LEGS. *shivers* Also I’ve developed the unwise habit to imagine insects in human sizes and ha, nope.
I used to write novellas but I don’t know how to write in French anymore
Ugh. I’m in that weird place in which I don’t feel fluent enough in English to write in that language, yet lost my flow in French (my first language) as well. I keep meaning to come back to writing, but so far I’m unsuccessful. Sigh.
- Joey @ thoughts and afterthoughts
- Sinead @ Huntress of Diverse Books
- Malanie @ Malanie Loves Fiction
- Laura @ Green Tea & Paperbacks
- Jasmine @ How Useful Is It
- Fafa @ Fafa’s Book Corner
- Elise @ The Bookish Actress
- Mel @ Meltotheany
- Fadwa @ Word Wonders
- Lucille @ A Dragon In Space
- Taiwo @ Stuffed Shelves
- Silvia @ Silvia Reads Books
- Syd @ Flower-Scented Pages
- Consu @ Paper eyed girl
- Sahi @ My World of Books