And just who are you anyway?

Why do people bother to ask? Thousands of years and gazillions of theories and people still wake up daily and don'thave a clue who they are. We go along with these mirrors. Mirrors held by other people. We casually walk by and glance and along the way, each mirror holder shouts out their answer to the question, not about themselves, but about us and along the path, we come up with an answer and damnit not even an original one. It's someone else's answer. We are who other people believe we are.

Sometimes we are the voices in our head that take issue with their declarations of our personage, but usually, we just kinda roll with it. This week, I'm letting everyone take their shot at me. Tell me who you think I am. Not that I'm going to believe you....because I happen to believe myself above the norm. I define myself by my roles and my "feelings" about my dedication to my roles.

A poster on a board asked us all to rate our devotion to country, ethnicity and gender. This was on the African American board, of course...because ethnicity would have been replaced with political affiliation on the OTHER board I belong to.

I responded that I am an African American woman. Period, end of story. The HORROR! You see, on that board, I cannot win. There I face the never ending battle with Muslim men...African American Muslim men that prefer to be called AfriKAN and think that I have been brainwashed by "White, lesbian, feminists" into all of my thought patterns. They believe my soul so far gone that it cannot be saved and pretend they WOULD have thrown me a life preserver had I not married a White man 12 years ago.

They think that because I relax my hair, I'm embracing White culture and Eurocentric beauty ideals. They believe because I champion a day when we can all live together that I have forgotten my history. Well, I wrote the wiki page on my ancestors...see Shankleville, Texas. I have research my family history for 15 years and I can trace my roots TO a slave ship and an African woman. A nameless African woman. For her, I will NEVER allow my identity to be anything that denies her. In me, there will always be "African woman".

I happen to be a American. Oprah loves to say how blessed we are to have been born in America, but damn, there are chains of bondage everywhere O. The ones here are just easily recognizable and we have a fighting chance to remove them. BUT, I'm grateful that no one has mutilated my genitalia. I'm grateful that the Taliban couldn't prevent me from getting an education. Albeit one I dropped out of and thus regret and will forever question my ability to complete a sentence. Damn..that's why I have a memoir sitting here collecting dust. Just don't trust a college drop out to succeed. So yeah, I'm been brain washed but the fems didn't do that to me.

They lied to me too. Told me I could have it all. A career, a good marriage, solid and healthy kids...but they didn't tell me that something has to give. WHat gave was my health. 2 rare diseases that get to eat me alive. I'm 36 and I have to write my own obit. But you know what, they held up the mirrors and they made statements as I walked by and I bought into it. I bought into all those mirrors.

I wanted the one that said "You are enough. You are more than enough and you are capable and worthy." That's it. But I got college job fair day with an exhibit every two feet and someone shouting roles at me with all the frenzy of those nut jobs that work the floor of the stock exchange. "You're Black, You're white, You're BI-racial, You're multi-ethnic, You're a negro ( gotta love Louisiana birth certificates), you're a woman, you're JUST a woman, you're not woman enough, you're a mother, you're a shitty mother, you're disabled, you're diseased and dying, you're a web designer, no a writer, no, a virtual assistant, no..better yet, you're a possession...you're a wife."

Maybe if I strip myself of all attachments, the labels will fade and then I'll find out who I am anyway. That would be a very long week at the Hotel Sofitel, but gosh, I could do it. I do love room service and the soap.

I'm rambling, so my apologies. I spent the night in the hospital because of the fluid around my brain. It kinda took over last night and no amount of my Fibromyalgia meds would touch the pain from the IIH. Orphan diseases they call them. I call them sheer hell. They have turned me into someone that I wasn't before. They have changed my identity. Suddenly, and not so sudden, I have to add "Disabled and losing the battle from invisible diseases" to my list of identities.

I would give just about anything to go back to that 19 year old whatever I was, that hung out with Prince every night and had no identity. At some point, who you are just becomes too much. Bad day!