My Identity

Like a flurry of snow falling, there are millions of identities and just like a snow flake, each identity is completely different. Our society is made of identities. For some people, their identity is as clear as glass, while to others it can feel like a rippling reflection from a pond and can feel distorted. Many things can affect our identity. For some it can be from their culture or the type of religion. For others the environment where we come from. For some people their landscape could be urban or rural and can have an effect of our identity or even how others may perceive us. My identity is reflected back to me whenever I gaze upon the broken view of myself. I see my identity by the color of my skin, how I communicate, how I dress, the foods I like, my habits around the house, and my childhood upbringing.

If someone was to see me, they would mostly see an average white woman in her mid-thirties. People could assume that I would have a privileged life, maybe a formal education, a traditional family home with a comfortable income. But when I see my reflection in the mirror, I find myself looking upon my own skin, eye color, hair color and over all appearance with shame, humiliation and self-distain. Through my years I have tried to change my look, my style, to struggle with shame and hate towards myself.

Upon leaving the dark and mist covered land of Scandinavia my family moved to the Pacific Northwest to settle and begin their establishment as dairy farmers and loggers. Father worked and mother was a traditional homemaker who cared for seven children.

My family home was a poor household with strict teaching of the bible and up bringing to fear God and the word of our father. Our family spoke English outside of the household, but my grandparents preferred that the adults and children spoke Norwegian and German so we would not forget our heritage. With the fear of God and the stern manner of our household we were instructed daily to be obedient and passive children. Our fear growing up was not of the Christian God or the word of the Bible, but the sting and pain from our father’s belt or the venomous words of disapproval from our mother. Our household still honored and kept to the Norwegian traditions of food and customs, especially during holiday times and rituals of faith. For us children, we were the workers and keepers of chores on our families’ farm. It is the only reason and understanding as to my mother and father having seven children.

Throughout my childhood, it was known that we were to start our day getting chores done before we could do anything else. Rain, snow or shine, I was helping bring in the cattle in the early mornings for milking, feeding, and livestock keeping. It was essential that as children we had to earn our keep in order to get food and have a roof over our heads. Our house hold had a strict and firm system of order. My father was of course head of our family, my mother was to keep to her domestic duties, and us children were to be silent, hardworking and grateful. In our earlier child years, we were homeschooled by my mother until we reached the age of ten. By that age we were well mannered enough to join public elementary school.  There was never allowed any sort of back talk or disagreement from us. Strong and silent was encourage for my brothers while us girls were told to remain silent and sweet. Although we were taught to think differently as children, play with only white children, and to believe that everyone else who didn’t look like us were the enemy. I was the odd duck out of the pond however, no matter how many all-white children’s summer camps we went to, certain rallies that took place, and videos we were shown about white superiority, I never could understand why all these white people were so hateful. If anything, their hypocrisy, ignorance, and just plain stupidity made them as a group look ridiculous.

Home was a truly terrifying place for me to be at. Memories of safety and sanctuary were either out in our property’s woods where I could ride my horse or play in our barn were the animals lived. With in the woods or with the animals, I felt safe, secure and myself. Through this isolation from my family, I could be free to think of an independence and better life for myself. Away from everyone and their backwards way of living and thinking. I was slowly finding my identity.

By the age of eighteen I left my home and family for good. Cutting myself off completely from my family, I was able to find my own strength. To understand that some people will never change and will continue to live in fear and hate or ignorance. I am not burdened with any regret. I have made a new home, career, friends and life of my own. I still struggle with the thought that I have done well for myself or am what some other people consider to be a strong and happy person. I am sure that feeling or enlightenment will come in time. For now, I have my love, healing and empathy for others to help build a strong foundation for myself. I have always held a firm belief that everyone, no matter where they come from, what religion, what gender or who they love should as be given equal rights and support. Truly, I am grateful for my friends and work colleges who come from all different cultural backgrounds to know my childhood history and see me as who I am and not what my cruel family represents. I understand that for some white people they consider themselves higher up in our society and have a certain order of power.

For me leaving home and entering a world outside the white supreme grasp and yoke was liberating. People that were not white were not the enemy or the boogeyman, as they were described by my family. They were simply people. A vast number of people with their own identities. Identities that they can easily recognize or that they may struggle with. Identities from all different cultural backgrounds and religions. And I am but a small snowflake, different yes but a part of that flurry that makes up the billions of other identities within society. Forever changing and forever moving.