You shall no longer take things at second or third hand,
nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. – “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman
I have this memory of sitting in the dining hall my freshman year of college. I remember noticing how many kids ate cereal at dinner. It felt like an act of rebellion, like an expression of their newfound independence: Our mothers weren’t looking over our shoulders anymore–you could eat whatever you want, whenever you want. I never ate cereal at dinner my freshman year, or any other year of college.
For almost ten years I made a conscious effort to pursue independence. But you can’t consciously pursue independence. You can only achieve it when you’re ready to–it can’t be forced. All my attempts to force it only amounted to small steps forward.
I’ve always seen myself, and everything around me, through someone else’s eyes, typically my parents’. The parental influence is immeasurable–they teach us everything: how to eat, how to drive, how to care for ourselves, how to think about the world, what to study in college, what careers are “acceptable,” how to register to vote and what party to register with…
I was taught that Democrats are Liberal, Progressive, the “right” party.
I was taught that, as a petite girl, I should wear heels to appear “taller,” to appear “leaner.”
I was taught to wear makeup to be “attractive.”
It’s only now that I will wear sandals in public. Now I will go without makeup. Now I reconsider being a registered Democrat. Now I question my voting history. Now I question the supposed American tenets of freedom, equality and justice. Now I question my perspective on everything I ever believed to be real. Now I see through my own eyes.
I feel a little lost in all of this. Inspired, but lost nonetheless. But I accept it, because feeling a little lost makes sense in this context. It’s scary. Not the I-Want-To-Turn-Back Scary, but the I’m-Not-Sure-What-I-Will-Look-Like-Tomorrow Scary. And it’s exciting. Not the I-Want-To-Stay-Out-Til-Four-In-The-Morning Exciting, but the I’m-Seeing-With-My-Eyes-For-The-First-Time Exciting.
{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
You’re cooking with fire now. Right on, woman! Comfortable shoes are where it’s at—and no one can define “comfortable” but your feet.
I think my feet occasionally get confused. They’re so accustomed to wearing heels that they think flats are uncomfortable! I’m attempting to teach them otherwise.
I can’t wait till I can look with my own eyes.
“Songs of Myself” is one of my favourite poems. I really do love Walt Whitman and I really can relate to feeling insecure and lost about what I’ve been taught about democracy, equality and justice. Exciting and scary as hell, but ultimately eye-opening.
thanks for the reminder that we all have to really, truly open our eyes once in a while (listening helps too). democrat or not, we’re all human, and we really all have such similar cravings.
I think this all means you’ve truly achieved that independence. It’s one thing to feel independent and live your own life, but it’s certainly another to have your own ideals, thoughts, beliefs, etc. that are separate from your parents and all you knew as a child.
For not going blindly, I applaud you. It’s hard to really be yourself. I don’t even think I know who that person is, for myself. Maybe I’ll figure it out soon. Good for you, girl.
This poem makes me weep. From time to time it is because I’ve achieved it and others when I haven’t. Like trying to write my own poetry instead of chasing others. It is intermittent. Wear those flats and keep looking the good news is the view changes.