Being a Nonperson and Fighting the Stigma

I know in my last post I mentioned a couple topics, but I'm not feeling either one of those things right now.  What I'm feeling at the moment is reverberations from being a nonperson...being relegated to whatever labels the world has assigned me instead of being appreciated (or respected) for the multifaceted individual I am.  *sigh*  Such is life...
It makes me angry.  It makes me angry that so many people out there see the world in black and white alone and miss out on all the other colors there are.  And I don't mean skin color, although that plays its part as well.  It plays a major part, actually.
I began typing this post as I was struggling to find a place to live by September.  Those of you who know me personally know I have a very colorful history, a history that has made me both the amazing and strong individual I am today and a very undesirable rental candidate.  Sometimes it is difficult to stomach the sheer extent of how stigmatized I am as a result of the mistakes I've made, and even more difficult to endure the judgment of those who look no further than my credit report and criminal record before deciding I am a worthless human being.  But I have to try to remember that I am not what those close-minded people believe I am.  I am not worthless.  I am not less of a person than anyone else, even if people insist on treating me as though I am.  That's their problem.  It says more about them than it does about me.  That's what I tell myself.
Back in the spring I completed a philosophy class through Marquette University that centered around topics like gender, identity, feminism, race, and other controversial subject matter.  For my final project I collaborated with three other amazing women on a "slam" performance where each of us painted a picture of how the world sees us, then dismantled that image by explaining how we see ourselves.  I believe the slam speaks louder than anything else I could post here tonight, so I'm going to put up the text copy of my part of it and see how it is received.  If everyone likes it then I'll try to dig up the video footage of the performance.  Let me know what you all think!  I'll try to post again within a week!

(Note: The content of this piece is raw, real, and explicit at times.  If you find it offensive, too bad.  I won't apologize for truth.)

This morning we all woke up and we had no memory

No recollection, whatsoever, about our identity

So we went out into the world and we asked them who we are...

They say I came from a good family, then brought shame to our good name. I was a small town farm girl gone bad, turned low class white trash, isn’t it sad? I was raised in the catholic church but I rejected God. I turned into an atheist, a hedonist, a feminist, a heretic- to call me a sinner just doesn’t quite cover it. And that’s saying nothing about my politics. Call me a bleeding heart liberal, I’m so far to the left. I’m a tree-hugging hippie, a radical, a rebel - a socialist, a communist, an anarchist, a sucker for a cause. That’s not even the beginning of all my parenthetically perceived flaws. I dropped out of catechism. I dropped out of high school. I dropped out of college. I can’t keep a job. I never finish anything I start. My resume sucks. For a woman I’m not modest or lady-like or domestic enough. I’ve drank and I’ve smoked and I’ve cursed way too much. I’m a weak little girl, and a sex object too. I’m too opinionated, too outspoken, too vulgar. I'm also an over-emotional hopelessly romantic overdramatic fool. I talk about and enjoy sex too much, and at the same time I’m nowhere near sexy enough. Mexican men always stare at my chest, black men always call me thick, and since I’m not married or a virgin they all assume I’m looking for some dick, but when they find out I like girls too, they think it’s only for their entertainment. They ask us to kiss so they can videotape it. They call me a slut. They even call me a traitor to my race because I have a bi-racial son. Couldn't I find a nice white boy to procreate with, instead of bedding down with some half-witted immigrant? People laugh at how my kid’s dad can’t even pronounce my name. People look down on me every fucking day, and that’s even before they know I’m now an inmate. I don’t even have a name, just six digits hanging around my neck like a noose, like society’s chains. Now I’m just a felon, a convict, a liar, a thief, a junkie, a dope dealer, a monster, a killer, a reckless and worthless not-even-human being. Now I’m an absent parent, a taxpayer burden, a poison peddling societal plague. I got no morals, no value, no face, and no name. I’m bad in every sense of the word- bad mother, bad daughter, bad Christian, bad citizen, bad caucasian, bad role model, bad person, bad idea. Just lock me in a cage, like an animal. Or like disposable human garbage, just throw me away. Since I’m a nonperson anyway.

Then I saw my own reflection in a window and the light cleared the smoke. And this is what I told the world... 

Alright world, let’s get some things straight. I’m so dope, so raw, so cold, it’s absolutely sickening. I’m so amazing I should tattoo the word AMAZING across my chest in obnoxiously large Old English lettering. I am hot shit, high class, beautiful, and badass- and I’m just getting started. I don’t just move my hips and strut my shit to the beat of my own drum, I turn everyday into a Broadway musical or a comedy club. Because I know who I am and what I’m about. I’m solid in my identity. I’ve had my ups and downs, seen and done shit I wish I could forget, but I refuse to let my flaws, mistakes and imperfections define me. And I reject the world’s labels and stereotypes and negativity. I reject their narrow-mindedness and insensitivity. When my struggle couldn’t break me, instead it made me. My heart and compassion are the product of adversity. My fall from grace is where I found the depth of my spirituality. My religion has no name but I forgive like I’m a Christian. I’m enlightened like a Buddhist, and like the Hindus I believe in karma. You get what you give. That’s why I forgive my users and abusers. That’s why when I see the haters, I smile and say hi even when I know they’re trying to sabotage my life, because I refuse to be a victim. I’m real enough to be accountable for the choices I’ve made. Articulate and brainy enough to whoop your ass in a political debate. Gutsy enough to put a world full of chauvinistic, sexist pigs in their place. I don’t need a man or a woman. All I need is me and my HP. All I need is to breathe, to be. I am resilient but sometimes I cry and that’s fine. That’s life. Being this brilliant and amazing makes a boss bitch emotional and tired sometimes. And by the way, I can call myself a bitch, but you might want to reconsider. And if you’re ordering pizza, go ahead and use the word “thick,” but have a little respect and don’t apply it to my figure. Also, my willingness to talk about sex is not an invitation, it’s just a conversation. And even if I am a shameless flirt, it doesn’t  mean we’ll screw. Call me a slut, call me whatever you want-just cause you said it doesn’t make it true. And you better watch yourself speaking about my kid-he’s got two loving parents from two vastly different cultures, a fact that always has been and always will be a benefit to him. And I may not be out there with him, but he knows I love him and that my absence is not by choice. It’s because for the moment I’m a cog in the wheel of a broken system, a member of a population that has no voice. I am living in a world that sees in black and white. But my rap sheet is not who I am, that’s not me. If you want to define me, better bust out the whole damn dictionary. I am not black and white, there are endless grays. We are not black or white or any other color or categories people use to separate. We are all part of the human race and in that we are the same. We are also all different which is a blessing in disguise. It’s not in spite of our differences that we are beautiful, but within them that our beauty lies. So here’s to being who you are, to being multi-dimensional, to being complex. Here’s to popping your collar, brushing off double standards and labels, dancing on tables, bucking the stereotypes, feeling your feminist empowerment, your confidence. Here’s to being resurrected from this mentasm of a social death... Because we are so much more.