February, 2017
I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with labels. As a Type-A individual who’s inherently observant, thrives when in control, appreciates punctuality, structure, and understanding, labeling people and things put or keep me at ease. However, as a black woman — with a myriad of interests and passions — who grew up in predominately white environments, and often wasn’t “black enough” for the black kids, or “white enough” for the white kids; the majority of my adolescence, and I’m now realizing, my adulthood, has been spent adjusting, assimilating, code-switching, and simply trying to find my place. But recently, I began to accept that the latter may never happen.
On Sunday, February 26th, I went to see I Am Not Your Negro in Baldwin Hills. My sister, Traci, and brother-in-law, Shawn, who live in Philly, were en route around the same time, on their date night. We ironically face-timed before and then planned to debrief afterward. Each of us had read a few (outstanding) reviews of the documentary prior to viewing, but none of us were truly ready for what we saw. “I need to see it again,” Traci said. “There was so much going on with the various images and footage, comparing the past and present events, I want to see it again so I have it all down pat.” I agreed. There was a lot to take in. And, as our discussion continued — our emotions ranging from anger to pride to hopelessness — I realized Baldwin and I had one major commonality I never picked up on, even as a long-time fan and reader of his work.
“He was brilliant,” Traci said. “What I found interesting is that he really didn’t fit in anywhere,” “You’re right,” I replied. “He agreed with the goals of The NAACP, Black Panthers, and Christian Church, but either didn’t identify with their structure, methods, or beliefs.” After we hung up the phone, I started thinking more about Baldwin, wondering if, despite being highly regarded for his intelligence, passion, and commitment, he ever had this sense of longing or loneliness.
On Tuesday, February 28th, I was getting ready to leave the music publishing company where I work and go home, but paused by coworkers’ desks when I heard them blasting Evanescence’s “Bring Me To Life.” After sharing how much I used to love [them]one of the most popular post-alternative American bands of the 2000s, the five of us started reminiscing over other great artists of that time period, also known as my formative elementary/middle school years. “Oh, Avril Lavigne,” I blurted! “I’m talking early Avril, the Let Go album, “Losing Grip” and “I’m With You” were my songs.” “No way,” one of them responded! “Are you kidding,” I asked? I loved me some Avril, Evanescence, Flyleaf, Linking Park…all of them, AND Hot Topic.” By this point, all of their faces were filled with shock and confusion. “I can’t even picture that,” they said after a collective chuckle.
I’ve lost track of how many of those conversations I’ve had.
I’ve always been outgoing. According to my mother I, “Came out of the womb talking,” one of few exaggerations I believe. I love meeting new people — hearing their stories, learning from, and laughing with them — and have managed to be good at it most of my life. Whether in line at a restaurant bathroom or in massive crowds at a music festival, I can make a “friend” just about anywhere. But, there have always been aspects of myself—my background, interests, etc.— people either find surprising upon meeting me or that I choose not to share in order to avoid the aforementioned shock altogether. Despite how that might sound, I wouldn’t classify my negligence as shame or secrecy, but rather using my privacy to hold onto my sanity. In short: being judged, labeled, and stereotyped is exhausting.
Growing up I loved hanging out with the boys in my class. They were fun, daring, hilarious, and easy to get along with. Alongside my two best friends Arien and Owen, I loved spending recess racing, climbing trees, jumping off of an incredibly fast spinning merry-go-round, or monkey bars. It also worked out well that I was an avid soccer player, proudly obsessed with Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain. To most, I was a tomboy; the only girl invited to the boys’ birthday parties; the daughter that hated spending Friday nights in the beauty salon, and proudly came home with whipped cream in her curls after winning the Jell-O eating contest at said parties.
But, I was also the daughter with an enviable American Girl doll collection— we’re talking Addy with every outfit and accessory imaginable—and a Bitty Baby named Bridget Kayla, in honor of the names I wish my parents gave me. The older sister who would force her brother to play house. The classical pianist that loved dressing up for recitals. The neighbor that would walk across the street with scabbed knees, B*Witched and S Club 7 CDs in one hand, and her “babies” in the other, to hang out.
I was the best of both stereotypical worlds, but I wouldn’t dare share that. While with the boys, I was one of them on my own volition—they weren’t the “girls have cooties” type. While at home in my room, organizing diaper bags, I was Addy and Bridget’s mommy. It’s as far back as I can remember where I adapted; I exclusively shared parts of myself to manage what I assumed to be fitting in with people or societal expectations. Call it insecurity. Call it wisdom. But, once I learned how to selectively be myself, changing like a chameleon in different environments, it was if I couldn’t stop.
This seamless change was most perceptible amongst my friendships. Granted, my extracurricular activities, and therefore the relationships developed within them, were diverse. Initially, I had my [Christian] school friends and youth group buddies that I’d pray, watch A Walk To Remember and listen to Relient K and Kirk Franklin with; local soccer-league teammates who I’d compete, make up ‘girl-power’ chants, have endless pizza-parties and *NSYNC versus Backstreet Boys debates with; and a predominately Jewish all-girls-overnight-summer camp crew who I’d canoe, hike, swim in a lake, horse-back ride, sing JoJo and Jessica Simpson hits, and shout age-old original tunes at dining tables and camp-fires with. Then, after high-school, a few post-camp summer excursions and exchange programs came college, where I, my interests, involvement, and friendships developed simultaneously.
Much like many interests, having different groups of friends is all I’ve ever known. I’ve loved and learned various things from each. And, while different parts of me may be more relatable and appreciated per group, I think the assimilating was a result of my insecurities and self-projecting.
May, 2020
I turn 30 in exactly 11 days — a fact that awakens every emotion you can imagine each time I think about it. But, none more than uncertainty. While I’ve grown further, and with more confidence, into who I am and what I believe my purpose to be on this earth, I also regularly find myself uncertain about so much — the 5 w’s about the future are constantly at the forefront of my mind. And, after how I described myself in the first graph, you might be able to appreciate how feeling unsure isn’t ideal, especially for me. Is it for anyone?
One thing I am certain of, however, is how much I’ve grown in this past decade, easily the most profound of my life thus far: I’ve moved across the country three times; I’ve successfully finished college and graduate school; I’ve started my first job; I’ve been promoted twice at my second. Last month marked four years at the company I work for and a total of six years of living in LA. But, soon after thinking about how quickly time passes, it dawned on me that I’ve been approaching growth wrong all along. Granted, it’s always come with a hefty side of gratitude, which I do believe to be imperative, but I think I, like many of us, have placed far too much importance on the physical.
Don’t get me wrong, degrees, titles, and salaries are significant, but if we fail to feel grounded and confident in who we are without them, what do we really have? For instance, I’ve gained more perspective outside of the classroom and office by witnessing how God moves even when you feel like everything is at a standstill, watching my friends becoming parents and champions for their children, or transitioning from wife to widow in less than a month with an inexplicable amount of strength and grace. But, I digress.
As I approach this new decade I’ve thought a lot about my life, what I’ve learned and experienced, and whether or not I should write about it — an ode to my 20s if you will. It’s tough because it’s been a long time since writing has felt natural, like the outlet I once used to find my voice. I’m not sure what transpired for me to feel that way but sitting down to write has felt arduous rather than comforting or enlightening. I have thrown a lot of energy into my playlists—I don’t think that’ll ever stop—but those used to be partnered with words of my own. Maybe I just needed a break.
True to form, I’ve developed a small library of ‘This Is 30’ playlists on Spotify. Ranging in genres (always), length, theme, and time period, there’s so much to highlight, listen to, and reflect on. But, last week I started drafting one called ‘all of this’, featuring various female artists whose songs or situations have perfectly fit and pushed me through my 20s. Today I finished it (I think), and within a few hours I found myself here, reading a draft about my identity and acceptance that I hadn’t touched in over three years — not since the day I sat down to write it.
Truth is, I haven’t thought about how I do or don’t fit into various spaces since starting this piece. To clarify, whether swiping on Bumble or speaking up in a board room I am regularly reminded of my blackness, my womanhood, my otherness, and there are days when those covert and overt reminders are more draining than others, but my responses (or lack thereof) are different. I don’t think twice about how my “unexpected” experience or interests surprise others. I don’t pause to share them either. There are so many aspects, infinite layers, that make up the fabric of who I am, and each of them deserves to exist equally, unabashedly. If they shock you, that’s on you.
Maybe I’ve found my place.
Maybe I’ve created it.
Maybe all that took was uttering and accepting how said place might not exist or be attainable.
Maybe writing has remained my outlet all this time, I just had to take a step back to gain perspective.
Maybe this is 30.
