I've reached one of those phases of thought where there are too many things running parallel and not enough outlets to get them all out. I keep coming back, though, to a quote from W.E.B. Du Bois, though:
I am most wholly American when I am nowhere near America, most likely, I think, because my audience lacks a side-by-side comparison so by virtue of accent and birth, the lable sticks unquestioned. As an expat I get told frequently that my actions, ideas and perceptions are "very American"; in my own country, however, I am more often accused of being "un-American". In truth, inside or outside it, I always feel like an outsider. The longer I spend away, the more I want to go "home" (a very loose term that is only used to the extent of "that place I came from"). The longer I'm there, the more I realise the truth that everyone who has ever left home and gone back knows: the act of leaving irrevocably detaches you, changes you, and even if you return for good, you will still be one who has left and gone back, not one who has simply stayed. After spending nearly half my life wandering across the Atlantic, both and neither feel like home; the only time I have ever felt that sense of "going home" that's usually associated with childhood haunts and fond memories is stepping into an airport terminal. If there were a way to live poised somewhere over the Atlantic, that would probably be the place for me.
I'm an American, an expatriate, a Southerner (which could be said is almost a "national" identity in itself), and, according to a joke between a friend and I, even an alien (a joke inherited from my father, ironically, since it drove me crazy when he said it, but also a play on the no-longer-PC term). But do any of these things actually say anything about my identity as a human being? I remember, several years ago, driving to work and being stopped at a light behind a car that had a bumper sticker that read: "Be American! Stand up for America!" For the five minutes or so I sat behind this car, I pondered what that meant, and by the time I reached work, I still didn't have any conclusions. So I asked my boss, who is a fairly intelligent and knowledgeable man, though he didn't have any better ideas. To this day, I'm still not entirely sure what the writer of that bumper sticker really intended to convey. In my mind, all you have to do to be an American is be born there. The make-up of that country is so fluid and diverse, pinning it down to anything more specific inevitably results in huge chunks of the population falling well outside the pale.
At the same time, while acknowledging and accepting my national identity as an American, I also have to acknowledge that I am not American. I can't be. By virtue of some of the other labels ascribed to me, I am not equal to other Americans. I'm not entitled to the same legal protections or level of healthcare. I don't have the same assurance of safety from harassment and discrimination when it comes to civil rights, employment, or even walking on the street or into a shop. So how can I be an American if I am also told that I must complacently accept that I am inherently less?
This is by no means solely the arena of the queer community. It's not a matter of queer vs. not-queer because the L, G, B, T and Q can't seem to thoroughly unite themselves, and have their own forms of isolation and discrimination. Even those groups who have attained legal equality still find themselves shoved back by persistent social inequality, whether it's their race, religion, sex/gender, or something else entirely. It amazes me sometimes how thoroughly determined humanity is to fracture itself into so many divisive little groups, instigating hate and fear over some of the most ridiculous and inconsequential traits. It amazes me quite often how determined humanity is to hate, to be angry and spiteful, and to take great pride in that.
I suppose this peculiar sensation of double-consciousness is one of the things that makes me wary of - okay, stubbornly opposed to - attaching labels to myself. Why should I accept a label that will not accept me back, or will only accept me under certain conditions? More importantly, why should I endorse a viewpoint that will only perpetuate the reduction of my self to a single word, a broad generalisation that chafes and pinches in all the wrong places and dilutes the right ones to a bland homogeny? Why should anyone?
I've been reading his work lately, one of those things I always thought I should read that, and then through the fortune of university reading lists, I actually did. There are a lot of great quotes in Du Bois writing, a lot of relevant quotes, but his perspective on living with a sense of double-consciousness, double-identity, of being The Other and Not-Other at the same time, resonated in particular with me. Much of my life has been spent on a fairly haphazard quest of finding a place to fit. I've found a few that come close, a few that I could make myself comfortable if need be, but in the end there is always that nagging sense of displacement and not-belonging that tumbles my life back into suitcases.It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
I am most wholly American when I am nowhere near America, most likely, I think, because my audience lacks a side-by-side comparison so by virtue of accent and birth, the lable sticks unquestioned. As an expat I get told frequently that my actions, ideas and perceptions are "very American"; in my own country, however, I am more often accused of being "un-American". In truth, inside or outside it, I always feel like an outsider. The longer I spend away, the more I want to go "home" (a very loose term that is only used to the extent of "that place I came from"). The longer I'm there, the more I realise the truth that everyone who has ever left home and gone back knows: the act of leaving irrevocably detaches you, changes you, and even if you return for good, you will still be one who has left and gone back, not one who has simply stayed. After spending nearly half my life wandering across the Atlantic, both and neither feel like home; the only time I have ever felt that sense of "going home" that's usually associated with childhood haunts and fond memories is stepping into an airport terminal. If there were a way to live poised somewhere over the Atlantic, that would probably be the place for me.
I'm an American, an expatriate, a Southerner (which could be said is almost a "national" identity in itself), and, according to a joke between a friend and I, even an alien (a joke inherited from my father, ironically, since it drove me crazy when he said it, but also a play on the no-longer-PC term). But do any of these things actually say anything about my identity as a human being? I remember, several years ago, driving to work and being stopped at a light behind a car that had a bumper sticker that read: "Be American! Stand up for America!" For the five minutes or so I sat behind this car, I pondered what that meant, and by the time I reached work, I still didn't have any conclusions. So I asked my boss, who is a fairly intelligent and knowledgeable man, though he didn't have any better ideas. To this day, I'm still not entirely sure what the writer of that bumper sticker really intended to convey. In my mind, all you have to do to be an American is be born there. The make-up of that country is so fluid and diverse, pinning it down to anything more specific inevitably results in huge chunks of the population falling well outside the pale.
At the same time, while acknowledging and accepting my national identity as an American, I also have to acknowledge that I am not American. I can't be. By virtue of some of the other labels ascribed to me, I am not equal to other Americans. I'm not entitled to the same legal protections or level of healthcare. I don't have the same assurance of safety from harassment and discrimination when it comes to civil rights, employment, or even walking on the street or into a shop. So how can I be an American if I am also told that I must complacently accept that I am inherently less?
This is by no means solely the arena of the queer community. It's not a matter of queer vs. not-queer because the L, G, B, T and Q can't seem to thoroughly unite themselves, and have their own forms of isolation and discrimination. Even those groups who have attained legal equality still find themselves shoved back by persistent social inequality, whether it's their race, religion, sex/gender, or something else entirely. It amazes me sometimes how thoroughly determined humanity is to fracture itself into so many divisive little groups, instigating hate and fear over some of the most ridiculous and inconsequential traits. It amazes me quite often how determined humanity is to hate, to be angry and spiteful, and to take great pride in that.
I suppose this peculiar sensation of double-consciousness is one of the things that makes me wary of - okay, stubbornly opposed to - attaching labels to myself. Why should I accept a label that will not accept me back, or will only accept me under certain conditions? More importantly, why should I endorse a viewpoint that will only perpetuate the reduction of my self to a single word, a broad generalisation that chafes and pinches in all the wrong places and dilutes the right ones to a bland homogeny? Why should anyone?
