Nanowrimo #4: Identity
Despite the fact that I’d shoved seven huge bags of clothing into the moving van, I now stood in my new closet, clueless as to how I was supposed to dress myself. I didn’t have any clothes to wear.
I’d just moved to a new state. I’d been here for about two weeks and still had plenty of clean shirts and bottoms thanks to all the laundry I’d done right before the move. But none of these clothes were mine … anymore.
In Utah, the state I’d just moved from, I was a black sheep. I left the Mormon church nearly two decades ago and, unfortunately, my entire identity had become centered around that. You see, the problem is that, in that state, people are assigned one of two identities: Mormon and not Mormon. Mormon, and Other. There, diversity doesn’t matter. Utah is a place where diversity and identity and happiness and sanity all go to die a boring, soulless death.
Save for probably the two or three months right after I’d had my name removed from that institution’s records, I honestly didn’t actively think about The Church. It slowly disappeared from my thoughts and conversations. I noted that the majority’s population were members and that its insidious fingers had a far-reaching grasp on the state’s government (which I kept in mind during election season), but I didn’t become an activist. I didn’t regularly join protests outside church buildings. I didn’t really fight against it. I wanted its members to come to their senses and leave, too, but I didn’t force that belief on anyone. I was just trying to live my life the way I wanted to.
Over the many years I since spent in camp “Other,” I slowly shed the oppressive guidelines of how I was supposed to look in favor of how I wanted to look. I dyed my hair ridiculous colors and shaved off a third of it because I liked the look of it, I got a couple of simple inoffensive tattoos that I think look cool, I only wore Converse and Doc Martens boots, and bought an arsenal of black t-shirts with words and graphics that I loved but no good Mormon would ever be caught dead wearing. My low-level edgy androgyny was a reflection of my true identity.
Or so I thought.
In that moment, I finally realized that I didn’t live in Utah anymore. Instead, I was getting settled into my new home; somewhere I loved visiting and chose to live, somewhere that better suited my values and gave me a sense of peace when I went outside. I was no longer living at a continuously high stress level, and I no longer felt like I was constantly being stared at and judged by all of the Mormons. I was now feeling the psychotic socio-religious chokehold Utah had been holding on me slip away. I felt free.
I have no interest in my camo cargo shorts, my t-shirts laden with skulls and punk bands, my bright rainbow hair, or any of the other edgy shit I guess I felt I had to hide behind or shield myself with. I thought I genuinely liked all that stuff. Now, when I step into my closet, I don’t even want to look at most of those shirts, let alone wear them or be seen in them despite the fact they were in regular rotation just a month before.
Since moving, I haven’t done anything crazy with my hair; I feel content letting the color fade out to an ugly red-brown and letting my stupid haircut grow out without facing the ever-present passive-aggressive scorn Utah is so good at. I’ve stopped dying my hair every single time before I go visit my (Mormon) family or before I have a big day out on the (ever Mormon) town so that I “look good enough.” I don’t hide my fat body in oversized t-shirts or suffer silently in clothing that’s “pretty” but uncomfortable to compensate. I wear makeup far less — -just for the occasional Zoom meeting for work but it’s only when I feel like it and no longer because I feel too ugly to be out in public.
Slowly but surely I feel myself embracing a more neutral and mature wardrobe. I actually have the desire to go outside more often. I have less anxiety and depression here. After decades of living with fear and judgment, and being force-cast as the ugly unimportant opposition, I can finally unclench and just be ME. My clothing no longer defines me, nor does my hair, my tattoos, or the occasional beer I drink. I am not an “Other,” I am a human being, no better or worse than anyone else.
Now, at 36 years old, I feel free to finally figure out who I really am and not who I have to be. Now, I feel like my identity, whatever it is or may come to be, is okay. Now, I feel like I have a right to be alive and talk to people and take up space.
Now, I feel free to be me.
