Persona

In high school English class, the question I hated the most was, "What persona is the author projecting in this poem?" The question always hit me between the eyes. I thought, "Persona, are you kidding me?" Because persona, to me, was what happened when the cheerleaders squealed, "Yes, I LOVE you!" to the dorky boy when he let them copy his homework. Persona was what possessed all the girls at lunchtime, as they flocked around the table of football players and preened madly like golden-haired princesses lost in some forest. This was persona, it was affected, it hid the persons. I could be talking to a friend when it took over, churned up some intangible shift of the air, sliding a glass door shut and making me feel--in an instant--suddenly alone and far away. I worshipped literature because it seemed like the one place that did not tolerate persona. So, "What persona is the author projecting in this poem?" Really, the idea was so offensive.

I suddenly remembered this last night, reading the opening passage of a novel that was clearly spoken through a persona. Two thoughts came to mind: I was a really nutty teenager, and, personas are okay in writing. In fact, the more I live "real life," the more I believe that growing up is all about acquiring personas but somehow being okay with it. For example, what is professionalism but a persona, knowing exactly how to posture, how much confusion you should show, how to curb your enthusiasm. And the same goes for the "we're keeping it real!" artists. As each of us emerges from the tumult of adolescence, we learn to write like adults, to remove ourselves and wax eloquence about macroeconomic policy or social movements instead. By adopting a persona or a unique voice, we can re-open the door to those things--what are they called? oh yes, feelings--and write more lightly, more deeply again.

Maybe. Or maybe I'm still tipsy from the Woodpecker Cider. Okay, one more glass of water!