Kidding.
That was according to the Republicans. What do they know? Uh...everything. Where have you been?!
Really though, the identity crisis thing is played out until you're the victim. I would consider myself an opinionated individual and through this writing experience I have realized that I can be a bit of a hypocrite and lacking in the empathy department. It wasn't until I was bulldozed by one of my patient's mothers that I was humbled.
As I stood in the break room at work, tears streaming down my embarrassed red face, I knew this was the moment that I wasn't quite over it. My hand were trembling with anger and the sound of those names echoing in my head "your white mom " this "your dark dad" that. I closed my eyes, as one last stream of tears rolled down my cheek, dabbed my face with a cheap brown paper towel, took a deep breath and opened the door into the hallway. I ventured back onto the job less confident than ever.
When my patient's mother told me that I "was having an identity crisis" I was outraged, nearly reaching over, arms around her neck, choking her. That would've landed me in our psych area, my license would've been revoked, and I would've still been left defeated and now jobless.
So instead...
I froze in disbelief. I administered the medication that I brought for her daughter, and headed to the door with her still going on her tirade about who only knows. Before I got to the door I turned around and said, "I'm done with you disrespecting me. You are incredibly rude." That fell on deaf ears. Naturally.
Her kindergarten response, "well I find you disrespectful". Ha! Is that so? I was unaware that bending over backwards for someone was disrespectful.
I desperately wanted those words to roll right over me, instead I spent the rest of the night playing the scenario in my mind at nausea-um. My supervisor and co-workers were hugging me, apologizing for the ignorance of that patient's mother. It felt good to be understood in that moment, but the battle was within. I have plenty of friends and family who love me, who support me, who appreciate the woman that I am, yet I don't know if I can say the same for myself.
As much as it pains me to admit, pleading my case that I was not having an identity crisis, she was probably right. Ethnic confusion. Combusting from within. Something I thought I was over. Joke's on me.
In an attempt to understand my feelings, putting the puzzle pieces together, I began journaling. I challenged myself to go all of the way back to my childhood, making sense of the biracial journey I've been on. It amazed me how many incidences stuck out. I can't remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday morning, but I damn sure remember that time in fourth grade when a classmate asked if I was adopted because I looked nothing like my mother. And the times we were in the store and nobody thought we were related.
Those questions haven't stopped coming, in fact they've multiplied and morphed into crueler versions of its original form.
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