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I'm More of a Man than You.

I prefer men. Talking to them, partying with them, and generally being in the presence of them. So many people say, "If it wasn't for my mother, I wouldn't be here." I say, "If it wasn't for my father, not only wouldn't I be here, I wouldn't be nearly as awesome and manly as I am." Yes, I know, I have breasts, a vagina, put on make-up every morning, and even wear dresses. But since I was very young, I had admired my father's unquestionable ability to intimidate. And I wanted that ability, so I watched him closely, listened well, and eventually became very much like him in very many ways. I came from a strong set of parents, both Marine Corps veterans, both still physically and mentally active. However, when I analyze some of my own life choices and behaviorial traits, it's clear that my father's influence was greater. For one thing, I like to talk about myself... a lot. I can (and have gone) go on and on about subjects of interest to me to people who most-likely only cared to get a brief answer to the question: How are you? I'm very well. Have been working on this blogging project, very exciting. Slow-going, taking some time, but I'm really hoping to open up a new perspective. If you ever have the pleasure of meeting my father and are a liberal in the mood for some heated debate, please do ask him about immigration and politics. Surely you will find his hour long lecture on the English language and his border-line "racism" fascinating. Now, you may ask me why I place "racism" in quotes. That will come out a bit later, for now we're talking about how much of a man I am. Men, that is, "real" men, are not as terribly emotional as "real" women which makes them much easier to tease and joke around with. Here are two real-life (or nearly real-life) scenarios:

1) I am sitting at a booth in a bar with a three co-workers, one of which has had a lot to drink and is now flirting with a couple of guys at the bar. She's petite, strawberry blonde, blue-eyed, and bubbly. The perfect Starbuck's barista, and the perfect candidate for fun night. Except, she's a woman. Not only is she a woman, but she is a woman with daddy issues, the major issue being that her father left her before she was born, wanted nothing to do with her, and she is currently in the middle of a search for him. These "great" guys with whom she is flirting apparently, somehow, bring up her father, at which point tears begin to flow from her bright blue eyes down her cheeks. She returns to the table, eyes red and watering, tells us the story, and the night becomes about the drama of her upbringing, rather than a simple night out drinking and laughing.

2) I am at work, in my green apron, mopping the floor, and talking to my male shift supervisor about books. He brings up Harry Potter, at which point I begin making fun of him and his mom (whom I don't know). "It's not that bad," he says. Having given up on intellegent argument, I resort to a series of "Your mom..." this and "Your mom..." that. Finding the "your moms" increasingly uneffective, I turn to "Your dad..." to which he replies, "Thanks a lot, my dad's dead." No tears, a completely serious face. My eyes growing wide as I appologize. He's not kidding, but he's not upset. He's cool, calm, and collected, as a man ought to be. As I hope always to be.

The funny thing, of course, is that Starbucks has Jessica Harvell-Haessly in their system as "male." I found this out when filling out my health quotient, finding it difficult or impossible to fill out questions about my prostate and testicular self-examinations. I am not as typical as the typical woman, but I do not have a penis either. In order to remedy the mistake, I must fax a form being sure to check the box marked "female." It feels as though I'm sending in a sex-change request, as though at one time I was physically a male, but felt so much more like a woman that I insisted upon the drastic measures of an operation. My husband is listed on my insurance as well under "spouse/ domestic partner." We are not as typical as the typical husband/wife. He is sitting on the couch, reading a book, while I write and eat the popcorn I asked him to make and bring to me. I am just about to ask him to bring me a beer.

I Don't Know Who to Blame for My Lack of Racial Awareness

     Neither of my parents ever mentioned to my sisters or me the importance of embracing our racial uniqueness. In fact, had it not been for the occassional person trying to speak to me in Spanish or asking me the question, "What are you?" as though the ambiguity of my brown, olive-toned skin warranted a question one might ask of a being exiting a UFO, I might never have known I was any different than any other human being. Instead, I grew up in a household with a mother and father who taught us the importance of embracing who we were, encouraging our interests and passions. None of us being interested in race or what it meant to grow up in a mixed race household, such issues were not highlighted or discussed at length. Instead my parents focused on our interests in dance, gymnastics, film-making, writing, Barbie dolls, coloring, none of which required a specific focus on race. Perhaps my parents should have made more apparent the fact that we were not  only dancing, but we were dancing as mixed race girls. And this was significant for some reason I would learn later in life but didn't know then. I wonder if my parents would have made a bigger deal about our race, I would be more interested in the implications of it on my life, more aware of my limitations, my self-conscious about the way others look at me. The people who raised me must also not have known that I could be a far less stable human being than I already am. So, I blame my parents, as is typical for someone my age going through a crisis. Let's blame them for this ridiculous amount of pride I have in myself, not for being a particular race, but for pursuing the dreams I pursue, despite my race. I blame them for my surprise whenever someone asks what I am as well as for the response I give on occassion when I want to throw people off: "human. A woman? A writer? I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you're looking for here." Of course, I know exactly what they're looking for, who I am. And apparenting I am racially ambiguous enough to not even be quite sure myself.

Who Am I?

This is the most important question in the entire world: Who Am I? People struggle their entire lives trying to answer this one question, and most die without knowing a damn thing about themselves. I, on the other hand, have had the great fortune of having others do the work for me. In my observation and experience, there are three things that determine one's identity. Also, for the purposes of this blog, there are only 3 things that determine one's identity: race, gender, and species. Now some may say, "Wait, but, what about what I do, my hobbies, my interests, my work, etc..." To them I would simply reply, "If you think what you do has anything to do with who you are, perhaps you should undress and take a good look in the mirror. That, my friend, is who you are." I am a racial minority, therefore you should pay special attention to what I say so that you understand how I, a black and white human female, see the world. I am the "other", the exotic, the cultural experience you lack but so fervently desire. I am here to open up your mind and spirit to something new and exciting. And perhaps, if you pay attention to the world around you like I do, you may find the identity you were looking for by accepting that which others apply to you upon first sight, some information mix-up, or a vivid imagination.