I traveled across the country this week. My first morning of travel began at 3:30am in Bend. My new friend Libby took me to the airport at 4:00 in the morning because she said she has had several different people drive her to the airport at various odd times of day and wanted to “pay it forward.” Her kindness astounds me. She was even chipper as she drove the 25 minutes only to leave me and my luggage behind at what could be the world’s smallest airport. It’s growing, though. There is much construction happening at the Redmond Airport.
Three planes later, I was back on the East Coast side of things. I noticed on my second plane, from Portland to Newark, the first class section was full of men in tailored suits with fancy jewelry on their fingers and wrists. I left the wilderness only the day before, and I found myself noticing all sorts of random patterns in society. It was Wednesday, so of course the airports and planes were full of business people. Not a single female in first class that day. On my third plane, from Newark to good Ole’ Charlotte, North Carolina, I noticed that I was one of only four women on the entire plane. Most of the men were wearing khaki dress pants and either blue or white, long sleeved, buttoned, and collared shirts. I could have been randomly placed on that plane without knowledge of where I was going and would have been able to guess that I was headed towards the Southeast by this unanimous uniform.
There were only two men out of uniform. They were wearing jeans and black shirts. They had tattoos. I could hear my Dad, if he had been on that plane, thinking to himself, “Those two don’t want to grow up,” or “What are they trying to be?” He hates tattoos. He doesn’t understand them. If my Dad had been on that plane, he would have felt most comfortable surrounded by the men in Southern uniform. He probably would have been wearing camouflage and most definitely would have been wearing a pair of cowboy boots. Those cowboy boots are what would distinguish him from the rest of the men. In much the same way that those jeans and black shirts and tattoos distinguish the two men with whom I feel most comfortable from the rest. I love my Father and his cowboy boots. And I love the fact that his uniform is not quite as Southern as those men that read their paper work and sipped on their $5 liquor drinks.
I am different from my family. I am indeed very different from most Southerners. I find this to be true even amongst the Southerners that I meet clear across the country. I think I have known that most of my life, even though I spent so many years trying to fit in and wanting more than anything to be understood. I know that my family does not understand me. Not the way that I desire to be understood. I know that in fact no one will ever understand me the way that I desire to be understood. I began realizing this when I lived in Flagstaff.
My sister came to visit me in the place where I finally began understanding myself. I was so excited to show her my enchanted desert locales that had provided me the solitude to find insight into who I am. We hiked up a small-ish butte to watch the sunset across the Painted Desert in the distance. It was magnificent. We hiked down in the darkness of night, my sister either verbalizing her fear of a mountain lion attack or filling the air with words to distract her from the fear. She talked the entire way up and the entire way down. I wanted more than anything for her to experience what I had experienced so many times on that same trail. I knew there was no way she could experience it through her fear or through her words. My experience is something I cannot even describe, because the experiences were mine. They are not meant to be described, much less understood by anyone but me.
At that time, during my sister’s visit, I couldn’t understand why I felt so irritable. It was after she left that I realized how badly I wanted her to understand, so that I wasn’t so alone. I had experienced so much growth, so much understanding with myself. I wanted, needed to share it so that it was real. I needed someone else to experience the same thing so that they could understand and so that my experiences could be validated. It took me another several years to finally realize my desperation to be understood and the ways in which that desperation impacts my behavior when I am not understood, much less when I feel so different from everyone around me. I feel irritable, angry, sad, and lonely, which is expressed through becoming withdrawn and confused and bitter. I become depressed.
Which makes sense why I have been so depressed for most of my life. No one will ever understand me the way that I want to be understood. I am beginning to feel more settled in my loneliness. I am deepening my understanding for myself and in that, find myself needing to be understood by others less. I still want to be understood for sure, and that desire is being satisfied in my own heart. Finally.
The trip to South Carolina turned out to be the best trip back I have ever experienced. I was able to be present, without judgment of others and without trying to change others’ way of thinking. I felt at peace with my own heritage and with my differences. I contribute these feelings to a few things. One of course is my own understanding. Another is from reading my 2nd cousin, Melton McLaurin’s book, Separate Pasts: Growing Up White in the Segregated South. I felt a connection to this cousin that I can’t even remember meeting. In this book, he eloquently explains what it was like for him as he observed the racism and segregation that (I think) still exists in the Southeast. I could relate to the confusion that he experienced from his own thoughts and behaviors as compared to those of the people in his hometown. I also recently watched The Secret Life of Bees, which takes place in South Carolina. I think the book and movie have helped me begin to look at my life and heritage through a third eye. This ability is important to me, because otherwise I am too attached and take other people’s words and beliefs too personally. I don’t take people’s words and beliefs personally anywhere else in the world, because I didn’t grow up there. I don’t feel the need to identify with them because they have nothing to do with me. Because I lived my experiences in the Southeast, and because I am so different, I have taken it upon myself to unnecessarily battle my very existence and everyone else’s existence.
My trip to South Carolina was a gift. I view my newfound understanding of myself and of my place in this world as a gift. I am so grateful for all of my experiences in this life thus far. They make me who I am. And in my differences from everyone around me, I feel alive and important. Finally.
