My friends and family say I'm a language person. It seems like I've always loved words and always written stories. My dad, who treasures everything I've given him, has saved my childish scribblings in an old, worn manila envelope. I laugh when I read my old writing. Sometimes, I'm amused by the simplicity and idealism in my stories; other times, I'm amazed at the insightful ideas I had as a child. Anyone who truly knows me knows how important writing and languages are to me. Maybe too important.

Because I felt so certain of my interests, I had an unnerving surprise at the public library yesterday. I was heading for the language books (400s in the Dewey Decimal System), but through some strange chance, I walked to the wrong set of shelves. Realizing my mistake, I was about to turn back when an unshelved book, lying open on the floor, caught my eye. It was an science picture book, open to a breathtaking photo of a nebula. I stopped short and picked up the book. Being an orderly person, I was going to reshelve the book, but then, I noticed the books on the shelves around me. Stars. Planets. Universe. In a word, astronomy.

I sank to my knees, feeling an odd flood of memories returning. I had been very interested in astronomy when I was younger, about nine or ten years old. I had posters of the solar system taped on the walls in my bedroom, and I had special issues of National Geographic that were devoted to the planets. I began looking through the other books, remembering more as I went. I recalled sneaking out of my house late at night to gaze at the moon and stars in my backyard. I remembered the fascination in which I had learned of the big red

I guess I was blinded, in a way, by myself and the people around me. I was in seventh grade when I really began to excel in English, and everyone started labeling me as a language person. Looking back at my grades in high school, even I would call myself a language person. I have done well in English, German, and French, and I am one of the top students in my Chinese school class, even though my family does not speak Chinese. In stark contrast, my math and science scores are less than stellar. To call me a math or science person would be an extremely cruel joke. It was merely assumed in my family that my sister, with all her math trophies and science fair ribbons, was the analytical one, and I, with my writing awards and art trophies, was the creative one. My friends and my dad, especially, have all assumed that I will be a writer when I grow older. I began believing it as well, and I shocked myself recently when I mulled the idea of pursuing a career in something completely different.

As I walked out of the library a little later, lugging an armful of astronomy books, I recollected that I had been pretty good at science in middle school. In fact, I hadn't done too badly in high school honors chemistry, either. It was disturbing how I had actually managed to forget part of my life. Just because everyone labeled me as a language person, I grew to fit that label. I somehow blocked out part of myself while I developed the part that everyone saw in me. Now, I am wondering if I had any more interests as a child that I have neglected. Didn't I take ballet when I was four? Why yes, I did! Didn't I also take gymnastics at a time? Yes. Did I have two moons named Phobos and Deimos? Yes...

Oh no, wait. That was Mars.