an essay by Jayleen Caban
“Draw a picture of yourselves” was supposed to be a completely manageable task for a group of kindergartners. Armed with sets of Crayola crayons and fresh sheets of construction paper, my teacher thought the most she would get were hastily colored stick figures and vaguely human-shaped scribbles to display on our class shirts. I was so excited to prove myself as the best artist under five feet, so I went to work on a masterpiece that deserved a place in the Museum of Modern Art or, even better, on my parents’ bedroom wall. As I finished my drawing, I began to think about the praise I would receive from my teacher, imagining her shocked reaction to the fact that the latest world-famous artist was sitting in her classroom wearing pink light-up sneakers. When I walked up to present my drawing, I patiently waited to hear sounds of awe and disbelief. All I got, though, was a sentence that crushed my dreams.
“We can’t use your picture.”
Distraught, I studied my picture over and over again to figure out what was wrong with it. Was it the fact that I drew myself wearing a carrot suit? No, there were no rules against drawing yourself in vegetable apparel. Were my colors too outside the lines? It wasn’t that either: my colors were as precise as they could be. So I mustered up both anger and courage, well, as much as a tiny girl clad in sparkly pink could’ve, to ask what made my drawing ineligible for its rightful place on our class’s shirt. There was only one problem with my drawing, and it was the fact that I had drawn my twin brother right alongside me, which I had always assumed to be his rightful place.
As a twin, I have always imagined myself as a prepackaged set. When we were younger, it was as if we were a set of Barbie dolls: “James and Jayleen,” standing side by side in blue and pink, displayed in a shiny plastic box for all to see. There has never been a time when James and I have truly been separated, especially in a town where everyone knows everyone. I’ve found it hard to distance myself from the one thing I’m known for, no matter how much I’ve tried. I know that I’m my own person with my own passions and traits--a person who loves dancing bachata and reading Riot Grrrl zines--yet sometimes I still feel like I’m the five-year-old who sees herself as a twin before anything else.
I’m not saying that being a twin is something that I wish I wasn’t, as that is the farthest thing from the truth. I wouldn’t trade having someone who will always be there for me--even when I steal his hair products, or annoy him when I’m bored-- for absolutely anything. What I could go without, though, are the endless questions that come once I tell someone I’m a twin. It feels as though, with every question, I’m pushed further into that Barbie doll box. Although there may not be a way to stop these questions, I know that I’ll never be reduced to one identity. I’ve collected facets of myself--the twin, the Latina, the poet, the activist, the needleworker-- and I display them openly.
I am happy to report that I have upgraded from a class shirt. I’ve begun to embroider a jean jacket, with hand-designed patches serving as tangible proof that my identity is not just made up of one aspect. With every stitch creating a line of poetry or a feminist creed, I emphasize the fact that every facet of myself is equally important. For my final patch I’ve decided on something a bit different than the rest: a little girl in a carrot costume with a boy next to her, a reminder of what (and who) makes me, well, me!