Who I am and who I aim to be is something I’m struggling to unravel. However, I have grown to know who I am not. 

Growing up, I was surrounded by choices and opportunities grasping for me from the beginning of my existence. I’m lucky to have grown up in Brooklyn, where I never saw the black and white of things, but the gray. Where I saw diversity around every corner and never questioned, but appreciated it. Where I was encompassed by empowerment and inspiration. Where I learned that a single giggle and glance of a smile can solace. Where I learned to value my education, a place that taught me to refrain from ignorance and instill apathy. 

As a kid, school became the place that fed my passion for literacy, where I grew into a book worm with bed head entangled in The Magic Tree House and Nancy Drew series. It was a place where wearing stripes and lady bug rain boots didn’t turn any one’s eye. I loved wearing my Wizard of Oz ruby red slippers and sneakers that lit up without a care in the world. I loved being outgoing and inquisitive and confident. I loved the feeling of making people laugh and smile, an irreplaceable and sensational feeling. The best part was, we were all just kids worrying about what to munch on at snack time or how to build our blocks. There were no posses or labels, everyone could be friends, and I hoped that was the way it would stay. There were no preconceived notions, no judgement, cruel stares or haunting murmurs. Yet, I should say. Then I began to get a taste of the true nature of those around me. I remember my childhood nanny Cynthia, whom I adored, pick me up one day from elementary school. She signed me out and held my hand to walk me home. I didn’t think much of the soccer moms and PTA members gossip and gawks. When we got home she sat me down and explained that they were staring because she was black. Even though I was young and perhaps naive, I grew enraged. She had been a part of my life since I was five weeks old, essentially another mother. While surely I could see that we looked differently, she cared for me every day of my adolescence and was there for every milestone that even my own mother wasn’t present for. The fact that even in the early two thousands, people could judge and spread their ignorance and racism was disturbing. 

As I entered middle school, I began to realize that the world I lived in was not how I envisioned it. I grew susceptible to the many challenges of the “tween years,” materialism, labels, pressure, conflicting self image and cliques. Even though I was surrounded by caring friends, my two parents and loving family, role models and inspiring teachers, I felt alone. I had never felt that way before. I could remember my childhood, feeling invincible, confident and unafraid. Even more so, I was happy. Looking back at it, there wasn’t one picture where I wasn’t smiling. Every day, I could escape from family crises and be surrounded by friends and laughter and playful rejoice. Very far from my comfort zone was middle school, perhaps the most uncomfortable stage of my life thus far was challenging to say the least. I was quirky, shy and awkward and my self esteem was at an all time low. My “specialized middle school” was divided into talents and I happened to be creative writing, one of the “nerdy” talents. Automatically, I was stamped and labeled and nobody cared about who I was, but where I was in the Mark Twain Intermediate School hierarchy. I was quick to make friends with the creative writers, whom to this day are still some of my closest friends. But at the time, the dance girls made it their mission to befriend me and mold me in to who they wanted me to be. I was so desperate for their approval and I became mesmerized by the power and authority they displayed in the middle school that I allowed it. Slowly, I began to desert my friends, as I committed the most serious betrayal a middle schooler could commit, I sat at the “popular” lunch table. Sitting at lunch, I was quiet because I couldn’t pick on other kids and discuss Twilight fan fiction for forty minutes per day. They were so cruel to everyone, picked on people for being individuals, something I was raised to admire. Then, they started comparing me to them, telling me I wasn’t good enough to be hanging around with them. If I wanted to sit with them, I had to be thinner, better, more cunning, vicious, more materialistic, only that wasn’t me. I didn’t wear Juicy Couture or label brands and I didn’t have a bedazzled phone case, but now I know that was the way I preferred it. At the time, I felt compelled to be like them. It only led to that eight letter disorder that I never imagined myself with--anorexia. At first it was just skipping a meal here and there, cutting back on food, but it escalated. Soon I couldn’t eat at all in public and I was secretly throwing my food away when my parent’s weren’t looking. I kept a food journal hidden with my daily consumption and exercise. At first, I loved the attention and the compliments, but soon I began to feel sick all the time. It wasn’t just a dramatic drop in weight, I lost interest in everything. I just had to be the perfect daughter who could handle the pressure all the time and this led me to be very anxious. It didn’t become a reality to me until it was revealed that one of my friends was hospitalized from her battle with anorexia.I knew then that I had to get help because I didn’t want to die. I started to hate myself for following in the path of a cliche. I kept wondering what happened to that girl who was so confident with her individuality and spunk. 

Still, I couldn’t shake this lingering feeling of being alone. While physically I had everything, emotionally I was a wreck and all I could feel was loneliness. Sure, I grew up with two parents and I was lucky, but while they loved me, we always lacked a real relationship. They were too busy fighting, too involved with their own lives or work or my sister to bother. After all, they practically passed me off to a nanny to raise me. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t the reason that they fought, it wasn’t my fault. The first time they told me they were getting divorced, I was seven years old. I cried hysterically, thinking it was my fault, that I caused this. They stayed together and they continued to bicker, so much that I wished they would divorce. They continued to tell me their marriage wasn’t working so frequently, at one point I just stopped believing them. Then, I just stopped caring. Maybe that stopped me from getting attached to people, making me afraid to be honest and let anyone see through my facades. I couldn’t let my true identity escape for fear of judgement, embarrassment or failure. 

To this day, I’m not healed, not completely anyway. I’m still afraid that I will be disappointed and I know many have disappointed me, including myself. I’m scared to be honest and defend myself. I’m afraid to speak up for what I believe so much so that people have started to talk for me. The worst part is I never stand up and say that’s enough. I do what people say because I don’t want to feel like an outsider. I’m terrified to try new things because I don’t want to fail, I don’t want anyone to see me weak. Maybe that’s why I’m so sarcastic, it’s not just me being cynical, it’s my attempt at a form of self protection. I’m embarrassed to let people see me for me, who I am and who I used to be.  I wasn’t able to talk about my low self esteem and battle with an eating disorder for a long time, but now I know it’s the only way to move forward. It’s not a secret, it’s part of my identity. I wasn’t able to trust anyone for a long time because I was afraid they would leave, just like everyone does. I know now that’s not true. 

Now the bits and pieces of who I was raised to be still reflect. I try not to ignorant, not to name call, not to judge, not to bully, because I know what it feels like. I try to see the good in everyone because people see the good in me. I don’t want to assume the worst and I try to see the bigger picture and maybe that makes me naive at times. I care what people say and think about me and while I try not to, it’s something I can’t help. I love making people laugh, not laughing at them. I want to make people smile because it gives you an insatiable feeling that you made someone’s day better. I want to be the reason someone in the world smiles, do something that people appreciate. I want to speak for myself, I want to be heard and I want to be confident and proud of who I was raised to be and who I am becoming.