This month, I am on the committee for a project called Youth Month, encouraging all youth to nourish, cherish and promote their creativity. I was asked the question of what authenticity means to me, and below is a blog post I wrote concerning my thoughts. It can also be found at monoxidestyle.com
The dictionary makes authenticity sound so unordinary. The phrase “of undisputed origin or authorship; genuine” entirely undermines the human capacity for creativity, for brilliance, and for personality. It also undermines the rarity of authenticity in the daily snapshots of individual life.
Where I grew up, all of the houses in any subdivision are nearly identical. All of the lawns are manicured, the bricks are all one of three colours, and all of the garage doors are some variation of a brown tone. All of the kids my age attempt to create the same physical appearance, show face at the same places, and be seen doing the same things. For as long as I can remember, I hated that. I strived to be different.
To me, the dictionary does not grasp the true concept of authenticity. I am the girl reading Ernest Hemingway novels while everyone else is reading the Hunger Games, or whatever trilogy is causing mass hysteria (if they’re reading at all). Even more weird, I’m that kid fan-girling in the corner over brilliant prose while others fawn over Harry Styles. While all of the other kids were buying tickets to Digital Dreams and blasting EDM from their ridiculously expensive speakers, I was buying tickets to see my favourite band: Queen. I’m the girl with the “weird” sense of style, who stands out for her obnoxiously printed pants. Or whatever I want.
Authenticity is more than being different, though. Authenticity, to me, is being different, and being proud of it. There is no greater feeling than finding something you love, immersing yourself in it, and sharing that passion with the world. Authenticity is a pride that overtakes not just your heart, but your soul, when someone compliments something that poured from every fibre of your existence, to be displayed fearlessly to the rest of the world. It is also understanding that not everyone will appreciate your authenticity - its rarity often catches people off-guard. Authenticity is being aware of criticism, but accepting it, casting it away like a gum wrapper, rendering it unable to affect your psyche, or the core of your existence. In order to be authentic, one must be PROUD of their eccentricities, whatever they may be.
I love to write. And I love fashion. Many people I know will never understand my fascination with Alexander McQueen, with Truman Capote, with Freddie Mercury, and with the people mass society has rendered different, weird, or messed up. But, their weirdness, their difference from everyone else, and their messed up lives are exactly what makes them endearing. No one can ever call them unauthentic.
I learned this valuable lesson from my cousin, a 6 year old wise beyond his years. At dinner, he and I were discussing being ‘weird.’ “I like being weird,” he said to me, his big brown eyes looking up at me and glimmering with innocence. “Who wants to be normal anyway? Being normal is being just like everyone else. And that’s no fun.”
Where I grew up, all of the houses in any subdivision are nearly identical. All of the lawns are manicured, the bricks are all one of three colours, and all of the garage doors are some variation of a brown tone. All of the kids my age attempt to create the same physical appearance, show face at the same places, and be seen doing the same things. For as long as I can remember, I hated that. I strived to be different.
To me, the dictionary does not grasp the true concept of authenticity. I am the girl reading Ernest Hemingway novels while everyone else is reading the Hunger Games, or whatever trilogy is causing mass hysteria (if they’re reading at all). Even more weird, I’m that kid fan-girling in the corner over brilliant prose while others fawn over Harry Styles. While all of the other kids were buying tickets to Digital Dreams and blasting EDM from their ridiculously expensive speakers, I was buying tickets to see my favourite band: Queen. I’m the girl with the “weird” sense of style, who stands out for her obnoxiously printed pants. Or whatever I want.
Authenticity is more than being different, though. Authenticity, to me, is being different, and being proud of it. There is no greater feeling than finding something you love, immersing yourself in it, and sharing that passion with the world. Authenticity is a pride that overtakes not just your heart, but your soul, when someone compliments something that poured from every fibre of your existence, to be displayed fearlessly to the rest of the world. It is also understanding that not everyone will appreciate your authenticity - its rarity often catches people off-guard. Authenticity is being aware of criticism, but accepting it, casting it away like a gum wrapper, rendering it unable to affect your psyche, or the core of your existence. In order to be authentic, one must be PROUD of their eccentricities, whatever they may be.
I love to write. And I love fashion. Many people I know will never understand my fascination with Alexander McQueen, with Truman Capote, with Freddie Mercury, and with the people mass society has rendered different, weird, or messed up. But, their weirdness, their difference from everyone else, and their messed up lives are exactly what makes them endearing. No one can ever call them unauthentic.
I learned this valuable lesson from my cousin, a 6 year old wise beyond his years. At dinner, he and I were discussing being ‘weird.’ “I like being weird,” he said to me, his big brown eyes looking up at me and glimmering with innocence. “Who wants to be normal anyway? Being normal is being just like everyone else. And that’s no fun.”