If you know me personally, or at least read any of my essays here, or saw any of my TikTok videos, by now you, my dear reader, know that I am quite interested in labels, identity, and performance, particularly how the internet affects it. The word ‘interested’ even downplays the meaning. Such a tacky simile, perhaps, but I am following the footsteps of Goffman with dramaturgy on this issue. I am not very fond of labels but the roles assigned to me throw me right into the middle of the stage for the public’s voyeuristic fetish; before being a separate I, I am what the audience tells me. A woman, a daughter, a best friend, a student, a writer, a Middle Eastern — it is you who decides the limits of such labels and my worthiness to hold them.

Having been accustomed to changing costumes between the curtains since a young age, it eventually became second nature to me, or so I thought. The class and social circles I was born to were different than the ones I’ve participated in as I grew up. It was inevitable to feel the negative aspects of this shapeshift. I belonged nowhere. My older groups were pushing me away and I had trouble with the new ones. Of course, there is no such thing as inherently belonging to a certain group, class, or label but there’s something called acceptance. To be completely fair, I am not exactly sure who is at fault in this situation, who does or does not accept the other. On the one hand, I am upset with the obvious favoritism towards West-centrism, even though I cannot blame people for taking a seat that is rightfully theirs. On the other hand, however, I am angry with myself for asking for a seat too where I feel I should be at my own table, with people like me. I grew up reading novels about false Westernization (they were and still are my favorites) and I didn’t even notice how I now resembled the characters I got annoyed. I sought refuge in alienation. I write stories of strangers in a foreign language; even worse, I find myself writing stories1 with a tongue I borrowed, tricking myself with the illusion of objectivity the second language might provide.

I have recently started to plan my novel — a passion project for now, like all my writings. For some time now, it has been hard for me to gravitate all the ideas and scenes floating over in my head. Everything started to fall into place in such a funny time. In a couple of months, I am moving to a city I despised ever since I existed. Many songs, poems, and novels had been written for the city (perhaps the reason for my disdain was a petulant jealousy or insolence for the lack of love letters written to my birthplace). After spending some time in the city, I asked my close friend, who has been living there for five years now, why she thinks poets and authors wrote about this big old metal lump. She told me how one day everyone vanished in an instant when it poured so heavily on a famous, always-packed street and she saw the true beauty of the city, as if from the eyes of now dead poets we both envy, while she was running to see the movie. Then she put her headphones on and for the rest of the ferry ride, I started to plan my plot on the back of a random notebook I brought with me. I thought, maybe I could be a writer then. Maybe this time, I can wear a skin that might feel mine.

“This château wasn’t built for ordinary people, and nothing has changed.”2 was said about the Château of Versailles by a random person in Bourdieu’s research; however, I believe it also fits my situation. I mean, I am sure we felt the same about various things at some point. Imposter syndrome seems to thrive in every corner, spreading like wild weeds. Scottering only worsens the situation. Although I think I felt this more intensely in academia, I was surprised by how much it would bother me when I began writing more seriously, beyond just fan fiction. Even if you claim to write solely for your own contentment, it's important to acknowledge that you maintain a relationship with an audience. What you're trying to convey is meant for those who are willing to listen and truly comprehend, for others it is just a sour word soup. Your stories ache to be shared, not just to be voiced. Of course, this is precisely where you may perceive your limitations. These are not always things you can acquire from reading or researching online. Because, talking for my case, acquiring a "taste" cannot be taught in a didactic manner, and developing one takes years and years of hard work if it is not handed down (to shorten the period). Regrettably, the perception of "taste" that I inherited and the perception of "taste" in the stories I desire to tell do not always align; not a bad thing though. I have a gift, according to my mother, for leaping from one place to another, twisting my words sweetly, and unluring the snake out of its hole. I take pride in it. Role or not, I know I can do it. After all, I'll be able to write the same narrative in two distinct voices. My main concern here is that once I finally feel like I belong somewhere, I'll realize I've always been lost. Return to the beginning if possible. Think about what it means to be an artist again at three in the morning, twirling a pen in your hand. Not that I expect to discover anything, and I'm not sure if I'm expected to.

Although it may not be obvious, the lack (or rather the difference depending on social class, groups etc.) of the cultural capital I mentioned with "taste" can trigger this imposter syndrome among writers and artists. According to Bourdieu's definition, fundamentally there are three types of capital: economic, cultural, and social. Although they are different from each other, possessing one of them may help gain others. To provide the simplest and the most basic example, if your family is financially stable, you may attend an esteemed school, build relationships with other members of your habitus, and expand your business.

Cultural capital can exist in three forms: in the embodied state, i.e., in the form of long-lasting dispositions of the mind and body; in the objectified state, in the form of cultural goods (pictures, books, dictionaries, instruments, machines, etc.), which are the trace or realization of theories or critiques of these theories, problematics, etc.; and in the institutionalized state, a form of objectification which must be set apart because, as will be seen in the case of educational qualifications, it confers entirely original properties on the cultural capital which it is presumed to guarantee.3

I sometimes think being an artist is a privilege. A small note here to avoid confusion: when I talk about being an "artist" I am not talking about someone who produces something visually or emotionally appealing. Becoming viewed as an "artist" is what I mean, regardless of how you earn your life. Yes, to a certain extent, it generally relies on an individual's skill and level of professional development, but in my opinion, this is not often the case. Ever since the line was drawn separating craft from art, being an artist has been largely about self-promotion. White skin, a gorgeous face, a knack for business, a few charming tricks under your sleeve, and a little bit of the middle and upper-class "taste". This is the modern artist's anatomy. This is a privilege. Practicing l'art pour l'art is a privilege.

I may come off as petty or envious with this. I envy them for I do not have the privilege of being apolitical. I am tired of retro-hedonists with their insipid and superficial curations, I am tired of their escapist art and I am tired of artists talking about how they made it, how they are the luckiest people on earth while their parents bought their way in. Artistic institutions are what they are because artists turned them into artistic institutions. People congregate there because they want to talk and share their stories. Ultimately, we all want to survive this vile system long enough to tell those who follow us what erupts from us in foamy waves, to keep our heads above water for a few more seconds. That's why I enjoy reading interviews of old writers because I like their coffeehouses and civil debates; without pretense, and with the political rigor that they should. I can say this about my own region, at least.

The scarcity of cultural capital ensures that social mobility is restricted. Given that cultural capital is mostly passed down through family or a mentor in close proximity, social mobility restrictions seem reasonable. Even if we do not want to acknowledge it, most of us are aware of the idealization of the upper class and the desire of those in the lower class to have upward mobility. When I phrase it like way, I know how hideous it sounds. On the other hand, we frequently encounter them in everyday life and on social media. This is much easier to identify in literary circles, especially in light of it-girl movements, dark academia, and authors being pushed to handle their own public relations. I recognize that the world is stressful and has recently been fairly traumatizing (with COVID-19 and quarantine in particular), therefore these groups—which I have mentioned as examples but it is not limited to—offer an escapist atmosphere. Everybody needs an oasis of calm where they may occasionally distract themselves. But eventually, we have to acknowledge that the pseudo-gemeinschaft we idealize manifests themselves into our lives.

History is told via the mouths of the strong, it is subject to full cynicism and revisionism. However, artists—especially writers and poets—are the voice of the powerless, regardless of how deeply the truth is buried in their fiction. It is tragicomic to promote apolitical artists who are visually appealing, since the algorithm already discriminates against minorities, and publishing firms operate based on engagement and follower count. They write about their made-up worlds, adorned with ostentatious aesthetics and tacky copies of upper class symbols, out of cowardice or a wish to disguise their lack of talent, even if the world is full of both beautiful and horrific stories to tell. I don’t know, perhaps it is better to let them be artists they play to be. Feast on it while you can, my friends. Time eats all his children in the end.

the cultural capital difference was a great theme in my life and looks like it will continue to be so for a while too. i like to call it difference because there’s no such thing as “uncultured” person or a group. there were many times i felt stupid because of it; money can buy everything except the life itself, so when there’s a lack in economic capital, trying to improve others becomes more harder. but then again, i am in a privileged position than the most people in my country, hell, even in some of my social circles. growing up with the stories of, commemorations and witnessing pogroms against intellectuals and artists because of their political and religious views, i feel like i have a duty to be a storyteller. writer? i don’t know. it is also must be mentioned that there are no absolutely apolitic piece of art or an artist, their silence speaks volumes. i just don’t think we are going through times we should stay silent or promote silence. again, this is another frustration piece. mostly at myself for all the times i turned my head away.

with love and arms full of roses,
hera.