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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
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
constantly trying to become the person society has designated me to be. My memory
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
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
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
Although the United States seems to avoid any discourse on the extremely
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
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
consciousness. As much as I would like to believe that my financial background has not
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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
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
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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glimpses into the world around me—a world that I had only previously read about. A
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
United States citizen, my position within the class system, my educational history as well
gender, yet I do not possess them. They possess me. My memory betrays me. I betray
Works cited
Santiago, Esmeralda. When I Was Puerto Rican. Boston: Merloyd Lawrence, 1993.
Smith, Sidonie and Watson, Julia. “Life Narrative: Definitions and Distinctions.”