Identity Theft

Identity. Where does who we are come from? Does it come from our parents, our experiences, or other outside influences such as the media? It seems like even from school age we are constantly being told who we are by outsiders looking in. However if we do not know our own identity, how can we tell them they are right or wrong.

             At first glance most people that you meet will place you within a maze, and watch you scurry around to find a way out and to prove yourself. At first glance most label me as unfriendly and snobby. In high school I was labeled as the stuck up overachiever, the girl who was involved in everything; president of three clubs, involved in sports, drama, student government, the list continues. Amongst my friends I am the conservative one, the one who always did the right thing and never took risks. Amongst my family I am the hardworking one, always working on weekends and never leaving a moment for myself.  To society I am the typical college student soon to be buried knees deep in student loans. All of these labels have made me question at one time, are they perceptions correct? Sure I can stand here and claim I don’t care what others say, but that would be a lie. However certain opinions matter more to me than others.

            I never knew how others in my family truly perceived me until I received 15 letters at senior retreat. Senior retreat is three day off campus retreat where intense emotional activities and discussions are held based upon finding yourself and God. One night I was told to go into a dark room, find a spot, and close my eyes. When I opened my eyes I saw a dozen letters from my family members telling me my best qualities. My godmother stated “you are compassionate, easy going, and have a great sense of humor. “ My aunt stated, “ you are very respectful, and make each person in our family young and old feel special.” The opinions of my close family and friends mean the most to me, and they see me for who I truly am. I hope they see me and admire who I am because so much of myself is them. I learned compassion from my grandparents, discipline from my mother and aunts, but most importantly love from each member of the family.

So now the big question, who am I? My name is Corrie and I am hardworking, loving, dramatic, organized, compassionate, stubborn, and assertive. I believe in God, in love, in miracles, and that there is good in everyone.  I never show my emotions, I let my mind get the best of me, and always try to look at the positive rather than the negative. Although it took me much time to figure out who I am and describe it in an essay, I am still growing. I will continue to learn from my own mistakes and learn to deal with the twists and turns life has for me.

For so long I have been telling myself I don’t care what people label me as, or what they think, but I have been lying. Instead of accepting the labels placed upon me, I choose to believe in myself, supported by my family and friends. Those who do not know me, quickly judge the person that they think I am, however my goal is not to please everyone. Instead of altering my life to fit their judgments, I will let my actions speak for who I am. 

Long Locks

It can be long, short, brown, red, damaged, or fake. Hair is a way most people express themselves. For me my hair was my identity. I was always known for my long dark brown locks, until I was faced with a tough decision, to donate my hair.

My sophomore year in high school I had long, dark brown, coarse hair that nearly touched my waist, and I was notorious for it. Each day I would wake up wash it, blow dry it, and then straighten it.  Need less to say it was a hassle every morning, but my hair defined me. Due to the fact that my hair was my identity I allowed myself to hide behind it and be nothing more than the girl with the pretty hair.

An assembly was called where all three hundred students of my high school were placed in front of an auditorium. On the stage there were a dozen hairstylists a waiting for brave souls to donate their hair to Locks of Love. Locks of Love is an organization that gathers donations of hair in order to make wigs for cancer patients.  One by one students, faculty, and staff lined up to cut over eight inches of their lovely locks. As I watched these brave souls willfully chop their mop, I became inspired to do the same. I saw the bravery in their actions, and wanted to feel like I made a difference. More importantly though I needed change, I wanted to be more than long hair, I wanted people to know me for who I was rather than what I looked like.

In my head I debated the pros and cons of what would transpire from me cutting my hair. Would I be less feminine? Would it fit my face? What would I be know for, if not my hair?  All of these questions rushed into my head as I waited in line shaking with fear. When it was finally my turn I sat in the chair and looked out to the rest of Alverno High School as they awaited my transformation. There was no turning back, I couldn’t be a coward with three hundred eyes on me. I was too focused on my feelings to even notice what my hairstylist looked liked. All I told her was “cut twelve inches off.” She braided my hair as I tightly cringed my eyes and then snip, snip, snip, it was all gone.  When I opened my eyes everyone cheered as I held my foot long braid in the air. I was proud of myself; I had done a courageous act that I thought I was not capable of.  I felt invincible with my short bob that grazed the middle of my neck.

Before my transformation I allowed for my mane to define who I was. The feeling I received when I cut my hair encouraged me to join the Christian service club and continue this assembly annually. My twelve inches allowed somebody else to feel beautiful and feminine once again. Cutting my hair allowed me to aid myself, but more importantly to do a good deed for someone else.

Memories

In The Mee Street Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman's Life by Frankie Lennon, the authors recollects memories from her first home. The narrator expresses her love for her childhood home, neighbors, and the community. Personally, this essay appealed to me the most because I had experienced the same instance. I grew up in a small home with my Mother, Grandparents, and Aunt. Although we fought over the telephone,TV, and the bathroom, we were happy. We had family dinners where we shared our day, watched movies together, and enjoyed one another's company. At the age of five I moved into a new much larger home with my Mother and new baby brother. The home was cold and big, not warm or comforting like my previous home. This essay brought back many of my own memories I had forgotten.