Identity #6

It’s been a study of detail. This month, I’ve focused on three key focal points -no, four.

  • Name
  • Citizenship
  • Persona
  • Privacy



I want to change my name. The name I currently answer to has never felt like it belongs to me, and yet I respond to it, have responded to it for my entire life.

I was pondering the irony one morning. I would be a second generation individual to change my first name in my family. My mother also disliked her first name, and changed her first and middle name when she gained citizenship.

How funny that I am contemplating, and intend, to follow her footsteps. Makes me question the free-will concept, and the strong imprint that parents have on their children…

Nevertheless, my intention for transition with this seemingly innocuous detail brings forth its own host of tribulations. The following thoughts have swam within my head.

  1. How will this impact me legally? Changing…everything without fear of identity theft in the process. The work, the new paperwork from passport to driver’s license to even my work ID.
  2. If I change my name, how do I fill out PhD applications? What gender? What name?
  3. When do I make my new name/gender legal? Refer to question 1.
  4. What about my old work, published/issued under my ‘old’ name? My diplomas, my published papers, my news articles…?

I can honestly say that this name change will not happen now, in my current employment. For a myriad of reasons, which I will not disclose here,  I keep work strictly separate from my “real” life. I don’t mix, I won’t mix, I can’t mix.

Already, I can see the writing on the wall, and it’s saying to get to high ground before the flood comes. And I want no part of it.

Back to the name, I don’t always know if I have one. I discovered a name, one that resonated within and one that I immediately responded to like it was my own. But lately, I’ve been feeling…nameless. Even with this name, which I am 88.9% sure is mine, I feel so untethered, adrift.

I may physically be located, but my spirit wanders like a lost man. Restless and restrained all at the same time. A contradiction, I know, but it’s like wandering on a leash. I can still feel the collar, and I’m not yet sure if it’s there to keep me safe, or keep me in danger.

I just don’t know yet.



Ah, yes. When your nation becomes the posterchild for “don’t be that idiot” perhaps it is time to move on. Furthermore, when that nation is contemplating leadership that is…less than desireable, perhaps relocation should occur sooner, rather than later.

Believe me, we make our neighbors look spectacular right about now.

Not going into terrible detail on this either.

Suffice it to say, I dislike… being lumped in with that which is divergent from my standard. Being measured by a standard of measurement unaligned with my own. Meters vs yards as it were.



Disclaimer: Below I write a bit about alcohol consumption. I’m sensitive to any people who are going through addiction recovery, etc. so I do apologize if this sets off any triggers and will indicate where you can skip.

I was invited to a friend’s Birthday celebration recently, and the evening encompassed dinner at a restaurant (yummy!), and drinks/dancing at a local club (like the local, rather small).


One thing about me. Drinking and dancing go hand in hand. Get me one drink, and I’m good to go.


A friend of mine (well… to be accurate, an acquaintance) was DJing that night, and he laid some really good beats. So I was dancing all night- ah, exaggeration, I danced until my ride was like “time ta go”. Which was sometime in the morning…

Anyway, I was dancing and then I started watching how guys were dancing, cuz, hey, I’m not all about throwing my hips and chest around like that. And it’s rather sad, but guys here don’t really dance.

I need to hang out with latin men. I feel like they got dances for DAYS.

Either way, I did try mimicking what the guys were doing, but it didn’t feel right. There was no rhythm involved, just a lot of walking and throwing up their hands, which frankly, I’m not doing since I don’t know what gang signs they might be throwing up (yeah, gangs are everywhere) and I didn’t want to accidentally indicate something I  wasn’t.

So, yeah, massive bummer.

Dancing the lead in partner dance is one thing. Apparently, according to this local, guys don’t dance solo. They stomp, they walk, they throw up their hands but they don’t or won’t or can’t dance.


I also noticed that I tend to dance “faster”. I’m not about the slow “sexy” dancing really. I’ve tried that, it just doesn’t work for me. So sometimes I look a bit… aggressive? maniacal?

Good workout either way. 🙂

But, yeah, there are some things I have to be my own man about. Looks like dancing is one of them.



I had to field a lot of questions regarding “whatcha doing for the holiday?”

Nothing, I don’t celebrate holidays, and never have, even while growing up.

“Are you going anywhere for holidays?”

Nope. Not this time

“Are you staying by your parents?”

Hella No! I don’t like going to my parents’ house for one main reason.

I am constantly reminded about the lack of respect for privacy and boundaries. Mainly from my Mom.

Context: For as long as I can remember, Mom has always loved to know what everyone’s up to. A conversation with her will have you surrendering all but your private information, not because you’re good at keeping your information safe, but because she didn’t ask for it.

Conversely, I’ve always been a person who doesn’t ask for more information than I find necessary, which is a low 30% of the information my Mom would prefer to acquire. Additionally, I am a person who values their privacy.

This is partly why I’m allergic to social media, but this is tangent for another time.

Anyway, what does this have to do with me going home?

I made a mistake. I trusted that my precious and private items, books, whatever, would be safe and unrifled in my absence. After going away to college, I couldn’t take everything, so I took what I deemed necessary and left the rest behind.

In the course of the past many years since, I still have some stuff stored by her place: stuff from childhood. I had a treasure box, where I had odds and ends I collected as a child: curious rocks, cards, medallions, etc. It was my time capsule of a sort.

It’s all gone.

Much of the stuff in there have been thrown away, given away, reacquired, and left lying around the house. Literally.

I came home one holiday, and there it all was, spread all around like the carcass of my childhood dragged behind a vehicle with bits and pieces strewn everywhere.

It hurt. Legit.

I was in a stressful educational situation at that time, and I was looking for some comfort in my old things, some re-anchoring and to borrow the happiness and peace from those happy days.

Instead, I left with undisclosed rage. Rage that covered up an acute pain that had me in tears later that week after everything went… to shit.

This merely one example.

We’d be here all day if I listed them all.

After that, I really had to evaluate the role that I would have my parents play in my life. I had to also face the fact that I don’t really want to see them anymore. I’m good with over the phone, but I don’t want to see more of my treasures taken away, destroyed, broken.

It’s just too painful.

Coming back “home” is a test in torture. And I don’t need that during the holidays.

Ironically, I’m at my parent’s house now, (unavoidable) and I was once more reminded of this. First thing when I woke up, I went to find a phone to call Mom. I snapped on the light and there it was. A card I’d gotten from my friends in high school.

A few thoughts came to mind:

  1. Why is my card in my Mother’s room?
  2. Isn’t that the card I kept in my childhood diary?


I had to go to a place, inside, where I just didn’t care anymore. I had Numerous conversations with Mom about respecting my space, my privacy, my things but she just doesn’t get it.

Just cuz I’m gone, doesn’t mean you get toss my things like it’s FBI search night.

I feel like I should just burn everything. It’s not mine anymore, it’s tainted, and I’d rather we just stop now.

Just take it out back and shoot it.

So I can’t wait till I go home, my home. I’ll be playing Battlefront, Assassins’ creed (pick any number above 3), and  Bloodborne if you need me.

I’ll also be planning to never return. A gentle divorce seems to be in order.

3 thoughts on “Identity #6”

  1. Well..I had the same experience when I left home for college. I was so very furious, so furious…I cannot put it in words. Though I told my mom everything, still she had to go through my diary and my bookshelf, wardrobe and basically when I came home one summer, my room had a new ugly furniture and my study table was thrown out. The reason she gave me was, it was no longer my room. I felt like I was an outsider. This is one of the reasons why I prefer staying away from home.
    Anyway, great post. Liked the dancing part. Hi5 on that too.


    1. I’m sorry you had that experience, drandomgirl. It is… such a violation. I also feel that unspeakable rage. Frankly, it has negatively impacted our relationship since she managed to strike a single handed blow to myself now and myself in the past.That’s what it feels like.

      It really is a messed up thing for a parent to do, and I hope, that when/if I’m a parent, I don’t ever hurt my kid that deeply.

      Liked by 1 person

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