INTROSPECTION
Who are you when nobody is watching?
“Just be yourself” is triggering advice tossed around like confetti.
It’s careless and excessively used in non-specific conversations about self-acceptance and relationship-building.
Well-intentioned, generic advice means nothing to me.
Don’t tell me to be myself in a world where my complexion is criminalized and used to start colorism wars with those who share my history. Deciding that beauty only comes in a handful of shades is a hell of a herding method, an intentional way to cause unrest among the weary.
Don’t tell me to be myself in a world where feminine expression is misinterpreted as an invitation for assault and crimes against women. I don’t want to hide my body in oversized clothing just to avoid the wrath of men who don’t understand why I’m not comfortable with predatory compliments.
It’s hard for me to be myself. It’s terrifying to be authentic. How do we cultivate self-love in a country that consistently fails people of color?
How do we nurture our valuable, beautiful bodies when we feel unsafe? Or when we’re staring at screens, scrolling through images that convince us who we are is never going to be enough?
Self-acceptance is a luxury. It is evidence of top-tier privilege. It is the outcome of introspection, healing, therapy, time, and rest. All of those opportunities are emotionally (and in some cases, financially) expensive.
Historically, women weren’t afforded opportunities to do the vital inner-work that sets a person free from societal standards and familial pressures to perform. Women in many cultures are raised to cater to and accommodate everybody else before prioritizing their mental health.
My grandmother, Lakie, didn’t have the opportunity to sit with herself and do the inner work because she raised ten of her own children and most of the neighborhood children. She wasn’t expressive. She never talked about her feelings or aspirations.
She was a woman who knew how to sew school clothes out of scraps, create a feast from flour, and still get to church on time to sing hymns that echoed through the village. She was a god of a woman. Powerful. Unbreakable. She never had time to herself. She never had a chance to get to know herself.
The stories passed down about Lakie are vague and generic. When I look for my identity in the women who raised me, I’m left with more mystery than assurance. More questions than answers.
You can’t say- “just be yourself” to a woman like me. A woman who’s constructing her identity from the debris of a family history left untold with bloodlines blended in the Middle Passage. A woman raised by women who never had the time, the money, the resources to enjoy self-reflection.
When the women who raised me run out of things to clean, babies to raise, meals to prepare- they’re aimless and uneasy. Looking for somebody else to save. And until very recently, I was addicted to being useful too. I thought being the help was my identity.
I didn’t know who I was until 5 minutes ago.
My life has been a lot like a masquerade ball, a fragile identity tucked behind layers of costuming.
For the first few decades of my life, I was a cardboard cutout of a woman. Smiling, as tears threatened my eyelids while I tried to fix people who never really asked for my help. Handling their hearts like an arrogant old mechanic.
It took years to discover my likes, interests, hobbies. It took years of unlearning to teach myself how to be a whole person instead of a prop.
In recent conversations with my readers on Medium, I realized that so many of us grew up being told who to be, how to act, what to want.
Learning to survive in our nuclear households required tactical skills like carrying multiple masks in our little knapsacks of assimilation, ready to be swapped out at any time depending on what an audience demanded.
Learning to survive in society required that we shed our quirks and find a way to fit into tiny boxes so that we could be categorized and tossed on the right socio-economic conveyor belt.
It’s a rare experience to know and accept yourself. To define yourself for yourself.
When nobody is watching, I’m a comedian, performing for an audience of puppies. I giggle (snort) at my own jokes and jot down good material like I’m prepping for a Netflix standup special.
I’m a Soul Train dancer, maneuvering and gyrating in the kitchen in a mismatched yoga outfit while Anita Baker fills the room with nostalgia and good vibes.
I’m goofy and wildly passionate. Emotionally unkempt and uninhibited.
I’m everything I always wanted to be- creative, genuine, and alive.
Who are you when nobody is watching?