I became a taboo when I was told to omit “I” from my writing. Somewhere in my education, I became risky. I became redundant. I became pointless.
My goal in writing was always to minimize myself. If someone can read my writing and forget that it was written by someone, then I’ve done my job. If I can insert my opinions and ideas into their heads as if what I think is unwavering fact, then I’m a good, persuasive writer.
The fear of I is so severe that its use is a risk. I understand why students ask teachers if we’re allowed to write I in our essays—writers need to know their audience, and distinctive style is risky—but why is it considered stylistic to use I? How can the writer’s presence be a style when the writer is present always?
It’s a bit funny and a bit twisted to approach writing, speaking, conversation, art and life with the mindset that what I have to say, is. God forbid I write because I think anything; I write only because I’m supposed to know everything.
But for someone at this level in my career, how can I claim to be an expert of anything? Through language, I forge authority. It’s always this: write to prove your point. And then by the conclusion: pull some sort of meaningful call to action out of your a**.
We’re taught to avoid doing otherwise. Statements like “I think,” “I feel like,” “I would say,” “I personally believe that,” take up too much space. It’s considered weak language. How paradoxical, that to remove I—to diminish oneself—creates a tone of importance and authority. If your language is weak, make your presence in it smaller. And you will be bigger for it.
This approach to language, which is so obsessed with enlarging the self, warps the way I see myself. My high school English teacher drilled our class to never begin our comments in discussions with “I think”—a sign of weakness—but something more to the effect of “This is how it is.” Needless to say, our class discussions became sites to prove one’s self worth. It was a game of making grand, sweeping statements that didn’t necessarily connect to the previous comments shared.
I think that’s the danger of inflating one’s opinions by removing those “I think” statements. I express my opinion and you express yours. There’s no connection between the two. The way we’re taught persuasive writing trains us to be self-important speakers, not conversationalists, politicians, not changemakers. On a large scale, it looks like Democrats and Republicans. On a smaller scale, it looks like non-constructive argument. There’s no room for revision or development.
Certainly there’s a variety of form and acceptable tone and not all writing should spell out I in a literal sense. In some instances, like scientific research, I is inappropriate. And in other cases, like in creative writing, I is encouraged, even necessary. I think the distinction is clear: Scientific experiments seek to prove what’s tried and true, while creative writing celebrates the unique, inherent subjectivity of individuals.
But for me, I write this from the standpoint of both a student who writes persuasive essays and as a writer for The Chronicle. Here are two forms starved of I. There’s something illogical about how I learned persuasive writing; there’s a paradox in concealing yourself as the writer. And journalism is the professional version of that: It’s “here are the facts, don’t question them,” in action.
Brent Cunningham, managing editor for the Columbia Journalism Review, addresses the claim of objectivity in journalism:
"Journalists must acknowledge, humbly and publicly, that what they do is far more subjective and far less detached than the aura of “objectivity” implies. This will not end the charges of bias, but will allow journalists to defend what they do from a more realistic, less hypocritical position."
Acknowledge I.
"Journalists need to be freed and encouraged to develop expertise and to use it to sort through competing claims, identify and explain the underlying assumptions of those claims, and make judgments about what readers and viewers need to know to understand what is happening. In short, journalists need to be more willing to judge factual disputes."
It’s a waste of time for myself and the reader otherwise.
I was taught that good writing should assume objectivity. I’d strive to sound “brilliant.” I’d strive for authority. I now think—after many years of producing embarrassing and haughty essays—that successful writing is simply conveying a point. And that it’s good writing if the point is still compelling, despite the understanding that writing is subjective, that there are flaws, and that there’s room for competing claims. Perhaps that’s why using I seems risky: it’s vulnerable, and it’s brave.
Writing is on the premise of I, it’s created by I, it’s I throughout. Use I. Don’t hide the self. Stand by what you think. That’s powerful writing.
There’s ironically, a certain ego in foregoing I. And it’s at the cost of productive conversation. In emphasizing I, there’s something more vulnerable, intentional, and strong. So I will admit now, to clarify: I am here in this writing. I think these thoughts. I am wrong, I am naive, I am impressionable.
All this is here: my presence, my thoughts, my subjectivity. I write.
Jennifer Zhou is a Trinity junior. Her column, "just like a woman," runs on alternate Thursdays.
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