Finding my Identity

I shouldn't say that my parents ignored me and certainly they didn't neglet me; I never bled to death on the kitchen floor or anything like that and I never went hungry or naked or dumb either. But parents are supposed to do more than feed and clothe. Parents are supposed to help you form an identity so you can relate to the world. They were supposed to teach me my history, which was also their history. Most of my parent's relationship and my early upbringing is a giant question mark.

They were supposed to teach me their core beliefs and values so I would have something to either believe in or rebel against... either way would have given me some point of reference at least. Eventually I labeled them with what I suspected their attitudes to be, I guess they did the same thing to me because they just didn't have a fucking clue about me either (and neither did I). Everything important in life was a topic to be avoided.

I remember when my Dad moved out of the house, my parents made it a big point to not technically get divorced for my "sake". My Dad actually ended up living just down the block because they were so concerned with raising me right... what a joke. My Dad was always much more interested in making symbolic gestures than in doing the real thing (throw money or a lawsuit at it and it goes away). Like they could have just officially gotten divorced, learned to live with it, and then he could have taken a more active role in my life... but his way he could still pretend like the family was intact without actually having to do anything to make it so. Weeks after my graduation they finalized the divorce like maybe I wouldn't notice.

My parents used this same hands-off approach to teach me about sex, drugs, rock and roll, the bible , the body (actually here maybe a hands-off approach is best), etc. I prepared my whole adolescence for "the talk" and it never came. The subject of "the talk" changed in my head over the years (the tooth fairy, smoking, drugs...), but it never got around to happening. I mean, I knew what these things were and I found them out well before they would've gotten the chance to tell me anyways, but there were times when this unsteady silence hung in the air where "the talk" should have been, like for example, when I got arrested with drugs. My dad's symbolic gesture here was to tell the police to keep me.

That's not all I remember... they made me get drug tested for two or three months after that (symbolic gesture), but after failing all of them, not only did I not get in any trouble, not only did I not get lectured, I didn't have to go get tested anymore! See, they got to feel like they did "the right thing" and nothing was risked and nothing was lost (except urine). We never had to discuss it again. Good job and bravo for appearances. *rolls up a joint*

So I kept using drugs and I kept partying and having sex and doing all the things I wasn't supposed to.... but they didn't feel like things that I wasn't supposed to do. I didn't do them out of any gleeful rebellion. Why would I feel guilty for or rebelous towards something that my parents were so ambivalent about... it couldn't be that bad if they cared so little, right? So, I did those things mostly out of boredom, and because those were the only options present that I was curious enough to investigate. (Blogging hadn't been invented yet.)

During this same time I used to have giant parties in the backyard and while my mother was home too. Either she never noticed the music and the smoke and the passed-out people in the backyard... or she just denied their existence altogether. Christ, I'll never know which because I'll never ask her. I mean, she must have noticed that it wasn't the same person going to the bathroom over and over again, that it was in fact 20 different people of varying facial features, heights, and genders. I mean, WTF?! Anyways, all that partying had it's own consequences for me so I eventually put a a damper on it myself. I still don't regret what I did... I'm in disbelief that I got away with it.

I much prefer being a foreigner in foreign lands, than feeling like a foreigner in my own. Strangely, I'm finding more self-identity here in Mexico than I had ever found back in Columbus. In Ohio I was just another below-average height white slob, which didn't exactly set me apart from the crowd. Now here strangers call me guero (blondie) or gringo (devil), anyways I get noticed. And they may have their own labels about who I am and what I'm about but I get to choose whether to accept or deny those preconceptions. I'm finding the perspective here to look back on my old life in the United States objectively; recognizing how my life has changed since then allows me to distinguish the things that I value from the things that I don't. Being here also exposes all of my preconceptions... like that bums are snazzy dressers for example.

In recent years I've sought out my own answers for all of the things I grew up never knowing and I've tried a lot of different approaches to life. Only now do I feel I'm finally putting my own history together, finally confronting myself outside of the only environment I've ever known, and I'm finding that I'm much stronger than I would have ever ventured to guess. The truth is we make our own identity and we make our own purpose. I'm preparing myself for the day that demands I make a choice, that I take a side, that I do what needs to be done. I will be ready when that time comes to pick up my sword, it won't be forged in symbolism, it will be forged in fire and wielded with certainty.