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Identity Paper

My memory betrays me, but I know I am not alone in this self-deception. I am a

female, white middle class American product of divorce. Born Catholic, I lost my faith

sometime during my teenage years. These social categories are the only concrete

evidence I have that I exist: everything else remains unconfirmed, yet I violently thrash

about these social constructs. I want to be more than an intersection of variables. I spend

an inordinate amount of time reliving the past, and this historical reflection has become a

self-serving retelling of my personal history, constantly remodeled to fit my mood for

that day. I am constantly changing but wishing I wouldn’t. Wishing I would have one

moment of static where I truly know who I am—one moment in which society’s

perception of me miraculously mirrors my own self-concept. I have been warped—

because it is a version of deformity and distortion—by what I have inherited, and I am

constantly trying to become the person society has designated me to be. My memory

betrays me. I continue to writhe.

My face—blue eyes, pale, freckled, somewhat translucent skin—remains the

primary marker of my identity. It is made apparent before I give my name or any

category of personal identification deeper than appearance. My white skin will always be

the first thing a person notices about me, and I’m still not exactly sure what that

immediate identification entails. Growing up in a primarily white neighborhood in Saint

Paul, Minnesota, I’ve never experienced the upfront racial discrimination that seems like

a daily occurrence for far too many. My right to live in the United States has never been

questioned; as politically and fundamentally incorrect as this statement may sound,


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whites remain the only racial group within the United States that is not expected to justify

its right to reside in the United States. I have always had the ability to examine media

outlets and observe people similar to me; more specifically, people of my race. I have

never been pulled over while driving without just cause, and I have never felt the

suspicious eyes of a shopkeeper while browsing through clothing racks. My status within

the hegemonic racial group of the United States population has allowed me to live less

self-consciously; I do not approach each day as yet another challenge to prove my right

of belonging. I am lucky in this sense; I have taken much for granted.

Although the United States seems to avoid any discourse on the extremely

prevalent class stratification within present-day society, class distinctions nevertheless

inhabit all aspects of daily life. I’m hesitant to describe myself as middle to upper-middle

class; it feels almost as if I’m asserting superiority simply due to the situation I was born

into. I know my life has been easy in many aspects, and this financial security has made

my life considerably less stressful. I have never gone hungry; I have always had a roof

over my head; although my family has had to budget, it has been over material

possessions that are not necessary; I have been able to pursue a higher education. I have

received more advantages than far too many. As much as I try to remain conscious of the

fact that my family is better off than a large number of people and that such financial

security no doubt creates a different viewpoint, my intentions of remaining aware of

others’ situations are not completely constant. I find myself making instant assumptions

regarding general financial capabilities, and it is only upon reflection that I remember

such immediate judgments are incredibly dangerous and detrimental to social

consciousness. As much as I would like to believe that my financial background has not
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altered my worldview, it has—more than I know. Examining this modified perception

proves to be a daily battle, yet it remains a necessary battle. Once I settle for my

viewpoint as the ultimate perspective, I know I will have lost all chances of social and

global awareness.

Furthermore, my status as a white, United States citizen has ensured that no other

culture would try to impose their set of beliefs onto my existence. Contrary to what

Esmeralda Santiago experiences within the chapter entitled, "The American Invasion of

Macún," no dominating culture has ever tried to force its ideals (or, more specifically and

less politically correct, power struggles) on me. In my lifetime, it has always been my

nation that has dominated the other; my nation that has insisted on its righteousness

above all others. I have never been given a sack of groceries full of food that did not

coincide with my nation's climate and way of life and told this was the proper way to

exist (Santiago 68). In addition, my American upbringing had fostered a certain sense of

isolation, an "us versus them," mentality that I never truly confronted until my junior

year, when I attended an international high school.

Prior to attending my international school, I was enrolled in an all-girls Catholic

school. Although this environment helped me to cultivate a sense of female

empowerment and ability and placed much less emphasis on stereotypical gender roles, it

also became an increasingly suffocating and insular environment: the majority of students

were from similar backgrounds regarding race, class and religion. Enrolling in Nacel

International High School proved to be one of the most worthwhile experiences of my

life thus far. I was one of four total American students within the student body, and this

decrease in comfort level finally allowed me to grow and examine my own identity
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within a broader, global context. Everyday social interactions became extraordinary

glimpses into the world around me—a world that I had only previously read about. A

popular sentiment of American superiority permeates presidential addresses, as well as

everyday conversation, and although I have never agreed with this idea that the nation

into which a person is born determines their place in the world order, I had previously not

developed such intimate relationships with people who were not American. I consider

my last two years of high school to be a saving grace of sorts; I do not know where I

would be—who I would be—if I had remained at my all-girls Catholic school until

graduation. I do not want to know. My years at Nacel International High School also

provided me with a safe haven, a place away from a domestic situation that was

becoming increasingly volatile and tense.

My memories are incorrect, altered, and incomplete. As written in the chapter

entitled, “Life Narrative,”: “. . . memory is a subjective form of evidence, not externally

verifiable; rather, it is asserted on the subject’s authority” (Smith 6). All I have to offer

are these memories; however, in terms of identity formation, how I remember the

memories may prove to be more indicative of my present character than any properly

documented event. Although my parents waited until my junior year of high school to

officially separate, I cannot remember a time in which their marriage seemed to be a

blissful one. It always seemed wrought with tension and loudly echoing silences where

“I love you’s” should have resided. Yet, in addition to these screaming silences, there

were words as well—words from which relationships never heal and people never truly

recover. Santiago describes a fight that I immediately identified with, eerily similar to

my parent’s relationship, as well as my role as a witness:


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I crouched against the wall and watched them injure each other without touching

each other, hurling words that had the same effect as acid on metal. Each word

diminished them, flattened them against the night until they were puppets,

pointing fingers in each other’s faces. Their voices extinguished night sounds,

and darkness swallowed everything but these two people I loved (207).

My father, all condescension and moral superiority, and my mother, strong yet

frustratingly submissive at times, have shaped my idea of emotional intimacy. I do not

view romantic love as a goal in life; rather, I see an excuse to lose oneself, to create an

environment of such hatred that there remains no hint of the love that had previously

existed. Santiago discusses the life of a jamona as something not necessarily undesirable:

“It seemed to me then that remaining jamona could not possibly hurt this much. That a

woman alone, even if ugly, could not suffer as much as my beautiful mother did”

(Santiago 104). I come off as cold to many men. If there is any hint of romantic interest,

I immediately shut down—cut myself off. I’m not interested in what they’re selling. I’m

not interested in that degree of damage.

My parents, despite their constant insistence on my intelligence and ability, have

nevertheless provided me with a strong image of gender roles. After the workday, my

father would return home, fix himself a drink, and retire to the basement. My mother was

always expected to cover all the parental responsibilities: cooking, help with homework,

emotional guidance, discipline, cleaning, and many other responsibilities of which I still

remain unaware. Similar to Santiago’s description the gender roles of her childhood,

“children and food were woman’s work” (64). My mother remains the strongest and
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most admirable woman I know, but I am only beginning to realize all that she has

sacrificed in her role as wife and mother.

. I am a female, white, middle to upper-middle class American product of divorce.

Born Catholic, I lost my faith sometime during my teenage years. These social categories

are the only concrete evidence I have that I exist: everything else remains unconfirmed.

Attempting to conceptualize my identity—to provide a historical framework for the

person I have become—and employing memories that have no doubt been altered beyond

initial recognition, I remain unsure about the person I am. I doubt I’ll ever have a

moment of complete personal clarity, but I am nowhere near unique in this sense. All of

these social constructions and identity formations—my race, my gender, my status as a

United States citizen, my position within the class system, my educational history as well

as my familial history—have shaped me. However, I word them as “mine:” my race, my

gender, yet I do not possess them. They possess me. My memory betrays me. I betray

me. I continue to writhe.

Works cited

Santiago, Esmeralda. When I Was Puerto Rican. Boston: Merloyd Lawrence, 1993.

Smith, Sidonie and Watson, Julia. “Life Narrative: Definitions and Distinctions.”

Reading Autobiography: A Guide to Interpreting Life Narratives. Minneapolis:

University of Minnesota Press, 2002. 1-14.

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