No one wants to talk about it. The suppression or exclusion we feel as human beings. The built up angst, the words that seem harmless but actually hurt. The discomfort that we live through everyday just to seem normal too our peers.
No one lives in the normal, we all live in the discomfort. This discomfort is our reality.
I grew up in discomfort. However, this concept had never crossed my mind until Claudia Rankine brought to my attention the endless encounters happening everyday that make us feel unsettled. Growing up in a town where my sisters and I stuck out because our hair and skin didn’t match the majority of the population, the signs of discomfort were all around us.
My sisters and I were subjected daily to the pulls and grabs of our curly hair which came along with comments like, “Why is your hair like that and mine isn’t?” To which my answer always consisted of an uneasy smile and a slight shrug of the shoulders. This reminded me of when in the text, Rankine describes the person at the cashier thinking to herself, “What is wrong with you?” after being asked if she thinks that her card will work (54). The woman that was simply trying to purchase her lunch was put into that area of discomfort, and internalized her feeling of being exiled. What is so different about me, and why didn’t you ask the person in front of me the same question? It is a discomforting thought to have, to think about how other people perceive you, yet one that crosses our minds far too often.
Another encounter with discomfort occurred while I was away at a leadership camp. We split into groups of twos and had to tell our partners something that they would have never guessed about us. I said to the boy sitting across from me, “I’m Panamanian and Jamaican,” feeling rather proud of my Caribbean roots. Without asking me to clarify or explain, he abruptly turned around to the rest of the group and shouted, “This girl is Pandamanian, I’ve never heard of someone being that before!” Filled to the brim with embarrassment, I did not feel like I had the power or the need to correct him. Others were already giggling and I shied away from the situation, internalizing my feelings, and deciding to live with the discomfort.
Whether we admit it to ourselves or not, we try to push down these feelings into an area where they are swept under the rug, hidden from our every day interactions. When in fact, they are always present and always an unwanted visitor in our thoughts.
I want to start by saying how much I identified with this post and how well you expressed an emotion that is weird to explain. I really like the line “No one lives in the normal, we all live in the discomfort. This discomfort is our reality” because it’s true. Everyone is living with some level of discomfort.
ReplyDeleteI am Mexican-American, my mom moved to the U.S. on her own when she was in her 20’s and taught herself English. That is something that I admire so much and I am proud to have those Mexican roots. Most of my friends know that I am Mexican and that I travel there every now and then to visit family. The discomfort comes in my appearance. When you think of the stereotypical Mexican woman, you picture tan skin and dark hair, both of which I have. It started when I was a baby: my mom tells me jokingly that people would tell her that my dad must be Asian or Hawaiian because I didn’t look Mexican, my eyes were too small! Obviously, I was a baby so I didn’t notice this until I was older. But even now people make comments about how I don’t “look Hispanic” but I missed the part where all of us Hispanics have to look a certain way.
Over winter break I worked retail in the mall at home and one day I was ringing up a woman who was spelling her name so that I could email her receipt:
“It’s Guadalupe, G-U-A-..”
“Oh that’s my mom’s name!” I say, typing out the rest of the email address on my own, knowing the spelling.
“You’re Latina? You look Asian.”
It was so abrubt, so judgmental sounding. And coming from a woman I didn’t know at all, I was a little shocked. I just laughed and shrugged and told her that I get that a lot. The next day I was helping another woman check out and, unprompted, she goes “Are you half something?” I wish I could make this up because who gets asked about their ethnicity by random strangers two days in a row? Me, apparently.
“Uhh yeah, I’m half Mexican,” I awkwardly laugh and I’m sure I had confused look on my face, “Why?”
“Oh no reason, you just really look Asian, it’s your eyes.”
Again I just laughed and told her that no, my mom is from Mexico, my dad is white, I get that a lot blah, blah, blah. I feel like every time I’m asked about where I’m from I have to explain the whole story when really I shouldn't have to feel that awkwardness, that discomfort or that obligation to explain. I’m proud of my ethnicity but that’s hard to be when it’s constantly being questioned or joked about.
Sorry that this comment turned into more of a side-tracked post but I really connected with what you wrote and think you expressed it so well.