On Otherhood

Had an interesting dinner party discussion the other night. For discretionary purposes I won't identify the participants. I wouldn't want friends and family to think that every social interaction is subject to reappearing in digital ink.

Also, because after enough red wine, there's a good chance I'll get many of details wrong.

Suffice to say the topic concerned identity and perception. More specifically how one presents themselves to the world. Even more specifically, in regards to members of a marginalized community or even a historically marginalized community.

I like to think that as a man of Hebraic Seasonings as well as distinctively WASPy heritage, I have a unique vantage point. From the outside. And the inside. 

I have a foot in each camp.

I'll be the first to admit I lean into my more Mediterranean lineage, more than my Scottish one. Mostly for jokes and not because I feel victimized or in any way restricted by my background. Though in the 1970's, as a newcomer to the overwhelmingly Roman Catholicism of Suffern, NY, I did hear my share of "Dirty Jew", "Hebe" and even an occasional "Kike." 

And bloody noses, ensued. 

Even as recently as the 1990's, I was prohibited from doing an Orange County advertising presentation because I was, and I quote, "too NY deli."

That fried my latkes.

I find it all very funny now. In fact, it's a point of pride. Not worthy of a parade, mind you. But those of you who have felt the sting of antisemitism know of which I speak. And I'm sorry to say, those of you haven't, never will.

That goes a long way to explaining why some -- myself included -- lead with their identity. It's a coping mechanism. A retort, if you will, to an unaccepting world. Particularly in a country that proclaims, "all men are created equal" and then fails to deliver on the mission. 

In so many ways. Explicit. And implicit.

For instance:

Imagine declaring love for your partner and then needing the approval of a Kentucky Bible-thumping hillbilly with a fifth grade education to get a marriage license. 

Imagine driving while Black through Brentwood, white knuckling the steering wheel in the hopes some overzealous cop doesn't notice the sometimes off/sometimes on rear signal indicator.

Imagine being a brown skinned Native American crossing paths with some angry white boys with the nerve to shout, "Why don't you go back to where you came from?"

Imagine sitting in a synagogue and between prayers about Jedidayah, Job and Judah, you felt the need to spy the doors lest some terrorist (foreign or domestic) comes bursting through the doors with an AR15. 

We, those of us who don't fit the default settings, lead with our identity as a measure of defiance. As if to say, "you want to label me, fine, I accept that label and I will wear it as a badge of honor."

We lead with our identity, because in an era of rising White Christo-Fascism, all too often this nation never lets us think otherwise.