Identity? I don’t know her.

Who am I?

That’s… a really big question, isn’t it? I feel like even the most well-adjusted among us struggle with that question at times. And I, guys, gals and nonbinary pals, am definitely not the most well-adjusted among us. This question feels impossible to me most of the time.

What am I? Now, that is a little bit easier. I’m Black, I’m nonbinary, I’m queer. I’m a daughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece. I’m chronically ill, I’m tired. I’m a smart person, a former Jeopardy contestant, but a college dropout. I’m a TTRPG player and dice collector. I’m a good friend. I’m a knitter and crocheter.

But lately… it’s seemed like that last part has moved more and more towards the answer towards “Who am I?” rather than “What am I?” A fiber artist isn’t what I am, it’s who I am. It has become an identity. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Not that it’s a bad thing to consider yourself a fiber artist first and foremost! Not at all! I envy people with such cut and dry views of themselves, actually. 

But I don’t see that as my primary identity. Not yet, anyway. Maybe because I don’t feel like I’ve earned it? Because it’s still just a hobby for me, rather than a job? Because I haven’t seen the success that I’ve seen from others on that dreaded tool of comparison, social media? Because I haven’t been published, or taught a class, or become rich and famous (ha!)? But then - where’s the line? When do I get to call myself Corin Purifoy, capital-F capital-A Fiber Artist™?

Other people, though. It seems a lot of other people do consider me a Fiber Artist. When people talk about what they like about me, they bring up my work and how beautiful it is, how creative, how talented. When asked what is the first thing they think about when they think about me, it always seems to be yarn-related. I seem to have typecast myself.

I do talk about yarn a lot, I admit.

But there’s more to me, right? I’m kind, generous and funny. I’m bright and creative, warm and friendly and loyal. Resilient, progressive, appreciative. I try my hardest to make people feel welcome and included. I want people to think about these, too, when they think about me. Maybe even think about them before they think “fiber artist.”

And then there’s a part of me that likes it when people look at me and think “knitter and crocheter.” The part of me that’s disabled, that is unable to work, that can’t “contribute to society” in the traditional sense, is thrilled that someone sees me as having a purpose. It’s internalized ableism for sure, and something I have to work on, but it’s understandable. Everyone wants to have a place in the world. For now (in the eyes of others, at least), I’ve found mine.

The night I wrote this, a friend, who didn’t know I was writing about my identity, told me, “You are a fearless revealer of the intricacies of navigating identities with grace and honesty. You are worth loving in all of your multiplicities.”

I cried. A lot.

I cried because I so needed to hear that. Because all at once, I knew that people see me three-dimensionally. Because I’m not “just” one thing or another. I’m a fiber artist, sure, but I’m so much more. I am many things, all intersecting, all mingling together to make me who I am.