Identity Theft

I have mentioned in the past few days that work has been a little slow. Rather than grumble about it, IP reminded me to embrace it – he and I both know that work is going to get crazy soon enough, so I might as well attempt to use this time to explore some of the writing and thoughts that have been on my mind but have refused to yield themselves to pen (or keyboard as it were). IP pointed out that this may not be the time for those writings and thoughts to come out, and that’s okay, but that I should see if it’s time. And because I’ve wanted to write about the following subject without seeming like a huge bitch, I think it’s time. Might as well put it out there, right?

A couple of months ago I began some tentative exploration into identity. I wrote a huge blog post that next to no one read, but that I enjoyed writing and enjoy reading. It helped to focus my thoughts and to mull over things.

Identity is huge to me. I best define myself through my first, middle and last name. These three proper nouns are my anchors in life; if it had not been for their uniqueness, combination, and the fortuitous nature of their union into my name, I would be a totally different person. Names matter, and my name matters a hell of a lot to me. Drop the last letter of my name and you’re on my shit list; attempt to pronounce my name with a Spanish accent and I internally roll my eyes; mangle my last name after I tell you how to pronounce it and I have to remind myself that it’s pretty rare on the whole. That’s why teasing out whether or not I’ll be WordNerd IP’sLastName is so tough – people recommend that you discuss it and figure out who this deal, the name deal, means the most to, but I’m guessing it’s both of us. So that one will be a toughie.

However, this isn’t the focus of the blog post. My focus today? Identity theft!

Following closely behind my name are my looks (and yes, I am the vainest of the vain in this regards). My looks are a mixture of European, Middle Eastern and indigenous Mexican ancestry – people guessing at my ancestry run the gamut from Moorish Spain antecedents to a right-on-target Mexican guess. One of the most flattering compliments I’ve ever received was from a friend’s mother back when I was in grade school – she commented that I was a natural beauty who wouldn’t need makeup to play up my features. Follow up 20 years later and people are always surprised that I am not, in fact, wearing make up. I’m blessed with great skin, big eyes (IP once commented that my brown eyes, usually so plain on women, were one of my unique features – comments like this throughout my life have made it so I’ve never been one to get worked up in a I’ve-finally-been-noticed frenzy when “Brown-Eyed Girl” is played), my mom’s great cheekbones, a small beauty mark above my lip, nice hair and a decent smile. Simply put, I’m cute and I know it. I’ve always been cute – the only time I was ever made to feel ugly was while growing up in the Midwest, when I would focus on my Barbie dolls, race to the bathroom mirror, close my eyes and make a wish before I saw myself, then open my eyes hoping to see a blond haired, blue eyed little girl. I was frequently disappointed that I had not managed to make myself look like everyone else.

I’ve now come to appreciate the fact that I’m not an ordinary pretty girl – generically pretty. I’m different and that’s good. So when people begin to compare my looks to other people, I chafe, cringe, feel the blood boil, want to scream, etc.

Celebrities, random pictures, acquaintance – I’ve had the misfortune of being compared to all three types. Celebrities can range from D-list Alyssa Milano to A-list Angelina Jolie (this one was an outright lie and designed to get me into bed – it did not work). When I worked for a resource center that helped out female students at a community college, a large photo of a woman graduating with her associate degree, holding a child, was on display behind my desk. “Is that you?” people would squeal, smiling in what I can only term a condescending manner – aww, look at the mother (bet you she’s a single mother, those ethnic people) working where she graduated from! – and all they saw was dark hair and dark eyes so it automatically was me. “No, I have an M.A. and no kids,” I would respond coolly (it was at this point that I was desperately hoping to leave this job). Silently, I would tell myself I was much cuter than the happy graduate.

The most recent in comparisons has been happening with some frequency lately and it’s grinding on my last nerves. I’m being compared to a friend. A friend who is definitely not measuring up to me on the physical attractiveness scale. That sounds terrible, I know, but it’s true.

We may have some similar traits; we may dress a bit alike, we both have dark hair that tends to curl (or go into loose waves in my case). However, the similarities end there. I’ve got a good three inches on her; co-workers and IP alike say that she’s bigger than I am. Our faces look absolutely nothing alike. Everything I described about my facial features above is opposite to my friend’s looks. And yet, people always want to believe we’re sisters, that we’re related, that we look just like each other. I find it infuriating because I’m unique just like everyone else. She finds it delightful and thinks it funny – a co-worker once dryly noted that my friend is finding it fun because it’s nice to be confused with someone more attractive. “Happens to me all the time with my friend – and I’m not the pretty one in the friendship,” co-worker said.

I tend to resist placement into categories – my name, looks, upbringing and life experience to date are inexpressible for me, and I have trouble finding common ground with most movements. When people want to group me with even just one other person and say that we’re alike in any way (immediate family excluded, obvs), I rebel violently – I am not like them, I do not look like them, I am me and I resent that you are trying to pigeonhole me only because there are general, broad commonalities that you see. I realize that this is human nature, but it is one aspect of it that I dislike. I sometimes find myself engaging in it (see above comment on not being generically pretty) but I try to avoid it in every day life when interacting with people.

I think this resentment of being compared randomly to various women ties back into my issues with identity. After all, for years on end I was made painfully aware that I was not like everyone else and that I’d better damn well accept it. Accept it I did, embracing the positive parts and beginning to see myself as an interesting mix of things, if not yet articulate in expressing those said things. Now that people pull me back into the fold – marking me as similar to others – I oppose it. I don’t want to be like everyone else. There’s my vanity to consider in this equation, to be sure, but it mostly pulls on my mind in terms of identity. I can’t define myself in any specific terms except my name and face and experiences, and to have part of that co-opted to make a general observation rattles me deeply. It makes me question why, if I was so normal, I was treated as being abnormal as an innocent and unassuming kid? And if I lose some of that so-called “abnormality”, how can I then begin to redefine myself in terms of identity?

It feels like identity theft – it may not affect me financially, but it definitely leaves me questioning who I am if not who I thought I was – me.