I’ve started to think more deeply about what identity comprises. For me, it is made up of many things: one’s spirituality and faith, social circle, upbringing, and background. Recently, though, I’ve started to question class and what meaning it holds for me. In my university courses in sociology, we have been exploring the idea of class, mobility, and meaning — how class is no longer so intimately bound to our parents’ occupations or upbringing but is instead a much looser construct that has changed over time.
I think, for many young people, class has become a gray area. We are more concerned with being outside of or different from a certain category than with fitting neatly into one. Class as a concept seems almost liquid — cross-currents flowing from definable to disprovable, real to social fiction. I find this difficult to grasp when I think about my own background. It’s like mixing water and oil: my dad being undeniably white middle-class, while my mom comes from a Latino working-class background in America. When they met, my dad was pursuing a career in photojournalism and my mom was working at Radio City Music Hall in fashion and wardrobe.
Class as a concept seems almost liquid — cross-currents flowing from definable to disprovable, real to social fiction. I find this difficult to grasp when I think about my own background. It’s like mixing water and oil.
This doesn’t mean I have more in common with one parent than the other. Rather, when it comes to my own identity, I find it hard to stick to just one definition or category. I never had to worry about money growing up because of the family my mother married into. We were lucky — admittedly, nothing to be ashamed of — since I always had my parents and a supportive network around me. Yet I do catch myself saving receipts, stickers from random items, boxes, Tupperware, and plastic bags, as if I’m compelled to look back on my spending and avoid waste. The fear of not having enough or being caught unprepared because I discarded something reflects the part of me shaped just as much by my mother as by my father.
This aspect of self reminds me that less is often more and that everything can be lost at any time. Now I see class in all those little habits and dispositions. When my hand soap is running low at university, I put water in it to stretch it out. Sure, call it a life hack — of course, it’s used by loads of people, no matter their background. But it reminds me of my mother, of living with her after the divorce, when the material comforts that we had enjoyed were gone, and money, and the lack of it, loomed large in my mind. I notice it in small ways, like when I rip paper towels in half at her house, but at my dad’s, I don’t think twice about using a whole one, or even two, to wipe up a spill.
It’s these small actions that often trigger guilt about having certain luxuries, as well as about being able to make use of them. If I don’t partake of those luxuries, then I don’t have to acknowledge my privilege. That way, I can relate more to my mom, who better understands the value of saving odd items around the house, versus the part of me that can sometimes act in ways that are frivolous, disposable, and naïve. It’s important to be self-critical and self-aware, but at what point am I too self-aware? Although I have hopes of connecting with my mother’s experiences of hardship, does intense self-reflection lead to merely putting on a mask? Further, does donning that veil of shame with respect to my privilege do more to inflate my ego than promote true understanding?
The immeasurable gift of writing is far more important than any identity I wish so hard to perfect a definition for or find a comfortable box in which to fit all five-foot-two of me. Without this experience of inner battle, curiosity, and self-reflection, I’d have very little to write about.
Shame, guilt, jealousy — these are emotions I wrestle with when considering my own class identity. I see less and less relevance of class in my life when I’m more concerned with greater issues that shape my identity, like what I enjoy reading or doing with friends. Comparison is a thief of creativity, and, fortunately, my writing hobby does not require this exercise of me; nor does it by necessity lead to categorization, exclusivity, or shame. So, in the end, does contemplating my double life, like my wish to be defined by only one facet, lead to naught?
I’ve decided, instead, that these words hold meaning, regardless of whether I write them on a napkin with a pencil or on a MacBook. Their meaning does not change, nor do the thoughts that flow from mind to fingertips. The immeasurable gift of writing is far more important than any identity I wish so hard to perfect a definition for or find a comfortable box in which to fit all five-foot-two of me. Without this experience of inner battle, curiosity, and self-reflection, I’d have very little to write about. So, I guess I can be grateful for it all — and none of it — at the same time.
