It's been quite a while now, but a lot's happened. And with classes at an all-time crazy and now that I've made some more significant discoveries about myself, I thought I'd take the moment to post my first ever video. Hope you enjoy it.
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“Adaptable, Unique, Uncomfortable, Insecure”
People often say I’m judgmental. And I don’t deny it. We all are. Every second of our lives is controlled, directly or not, by judgment. Physical appearance is what founds our perceptions of people and is what causes us to approach someone or to walk past them or to avoid eye contact. But aren’t there better ways of judging someone’s character than by appearance? Can’t someone look formal as easily as they can look standoffish? But how else could we possibly decide which of the millions of strangers we see in our lives to speak with, to befriend, to fall in love with?
At work, a six year-old girl, a girl I was supposed to be teaching and making feel safe after her father left, approached one of my coworkers in tears and told him that I was scary. She wouldn’t come near me, said she wanted to go home. Perhaps it was the piercings or the tattoos or simply my general mannerisms… It had happened before and it would continue to happen this blatantly and sometimes more subtly, through conversation with their parents or with my boss.
When I was six and when I was seven and eight—all the way until fifteen—I looked ridiculous, a chubby kid with his head in a book. I didn’t talk much—not at all really—had a few friends, but it was mostly just me. It’s why I began, every now and then, shocking people as though it were Halloween for the sake of randomly drawing attention to myself. I would dye my hair black, add fake piercings, put on eyeliner—I would amp up the physical standoffishness to the point of liberty spikes and near ridicule so that, the next day, they’d see it could be worse; I could look scarier or more off-putting.
My hair was long… not that long… but about that long… Everyone has that awkward-looking stage—usually a year or two in middle school—and that was mine. It took up most of my childhood.
Most people called me a girl for those years whether they actually believe it or not, critiqued me for looking ridiculous, asked when I was going to grow some balls or man up. It continued even after I cut my hair, the impression of femininity having spread and stuck enough for it to not so easily fade. And, even though I played baseball and had the same body type as my twin brother, I was assumed to be physically weaker.
Upon reflection, I’ve recognized this as the central cause of my general discomfort. The experiences have kept me from comfortable stagnancy, giving me the compulsion to constantly move at a brisk pace, to stand rather than sit, to never make a friend for too long. And they’re what’s inspired me to change my appearance to be as uninterpretable as possible. Because I’d rather look a mystery than look a part I’m not or a part I don’t want to be or any part that people can recognize as a stereotype or persona. I’ve accumulated various appearances that each say something different… because the only single person I want to be is a mosaic of all these different selves. I can never, therefore, fail to meet another’s expectations because they can never know what expectations to set.
At times, I look back on pictures of my adolescent self. Before age ten, I never stopped smiling with my chipmunk cheeks and ridiculous-looking dimples that I now hide at all costs. And, seeing these images, I become disappointed in just how different I look than I or anyone else would have ever expected—not how different I am but how different I look. I think of the kids I’ve taught who are too young to create their own selves; I think of what they might look like in ten or fifteen years when they “man up” or “grow up”; I think of how different and how much of a mess they might become. And of how different and how much of a mess I’ve become.
People say I’m unapproachable. I’m intimidating. Aloof. They speak about how they are uncomfortable, about how my appearance affects them, as though I won’t wave and say “please” and “thank-you” and “hello” as frequently if I look like THIS or THIS as opposed to THIS. And why shouldn’t it be about them? People are selfish. I’m selfish. It’s why I can take hundreds of pictures of myself even while continually criticizing them. It’s why on a Thanksgiving weekend when I’m on campus essentially alone, I take twenty-five minutes to get ready instead of five—just to remind myself that I can look good for no reason; I can look however I want. It’s why I can just as easily look like the biggest nerd or the biggest couch potato, the biggest creep or the biggest douchebag. And it’s why I can be a douchebag and then be an entirely caring person as smoothly as I can slide out one of my piercings. Because there’s no skin that feels right on me for more than a few moments.
People never say that I’m adaptable. Or that I’m unique. They don’t acknowledge the possibility that I may be simply uncontrollably uncomfortable. Or insecure. Because it doesn’t need saying. Isn’t everyone adaptable, unique, and uncomfortable? Isn’t everyone insecure?
