by Racialicious special correspondent Wendi Muse

I’m what sociologists, activists, and well-informed college students would consider a person facing multiple levels of oppression. I identify as black, female, and bisexual, meaning that I can be quickly and easily judged, categorized, and even discriminated against not only because of one aspect of my identity, but many. I’ve got race, gender, and sexuality to deal with. How fun.

I am not alone, however. We all somehow fall into a category that puts us at an institutional and/or social disadvantage at some point in our lives, even those who many consider to be at the top of the social pyramid. They too they are judged based on their identity. That level of inclusion within the dominant culture often yields unrealistic expectations and calls for a rigid following of social norms (much like the model minority complex). Those who veer outside of these standards for whatever reason sometimes risk losing their ranking (example: The questioning of a straight man’s sexuality if he gets pedicures and manicures or takes special care when it comes to grooming. Before “metrosexuality” was coined, this type of man was considered quite unfairly to have one foot in the closet).

Of course I didn’t always recognize these levels. They became clearer to me with age, as I began to realize the varied meanings of my identity, how I expressed it (with intent or without), and how other people interpreted it and then behaved toward me as a result. But the more I learned, the more I found myself wishing for an “off” button, a moment when I could just be free, not burdened with the realities of the –ism and –phobia wars. I wanted to run through the cornfields in my mind like people in dream sequences in cheesy movies as opposed to thinking about the significance of what I eat, what I do, what I wear, what I say, and whom I choose to date in fear that they will one day be used against me or interpreted as the confirmation of a stereotype.

So every now and then, I try a little experiment I call simply “Being.” It involves making a conscious effort to turn off my brain, to not think in the back of my mind that someone will reject, hate, ignore, or fetishize me because of my how I identify or how I think that they will interpret my identity. Note that here I said how I think they will interpret. That’s important considering that I do not read minds. I can only GUESS, meaning that I have to turn on my stereotyping machine too, and convince myself in a millisecond that the person sitting across from me on the subway or in a room will think of me in a certain way because of how I interpret that person’s race, gender, possible sexuality and socio-economic status, etc etc etc. All these things happen so quickly that it frightens me, but that’s why this little test I administer to myself occasionally is so hard. It involves shutting down a part of my brain that I am programmed to use and continue to fuel by reading the paper, watching television and films, and, to be frank, discussing identity issues.

Sometimes the frequency at which I focus on –isms makes me overthink. I can hardly watch tv anymore without a zillion signals firing in my brain. Racist! Classist! Homophobic! Lookist! Ageist! It never ends. I nearly had a nervous breakdown when watching the 1934 film version of Imitation of Life and experience a moral dilemma every time I decide to do something different with my hair. I honestly want to be unemployed. I want society to put me out of a job. To make it so that there is no need for me to write about things like this anymore. But as the song says, “there’s always something there to remind me.” Indeed.

In other instances, those interruptions of my simply “Being” are most certainly external, not just inside my head. These are the most frustrating interlopers to my enjoying my life as Wendi and not as a representative for people who identify similarly to me. I can’t control them. I can’t tune out or shut off the reminders that breakdown my temporary suspension of reality. It seems that just when I am becoming comfortable, just when I take one moment to not think about racism, I witness an empty cab drive past a well-dressed and neatly groomed (aka non-threatening) black man. Just when I think that I can mention a former girlfriend in peace, I am asked a zillion follow-up questions about lesbian sex. Just when I think I can walk home from the subway after work in peace, someone yells out a lewd comment. I am almost ALWAYS reminded of my place in society, no matter how hard I try to block it out.

It makes me question the suspicion that I am becoming oversensitive. That self-assigned allegation is quickly dismissed once I am reminded of why I think about these issues. I can’t help it. Someone or something always steps in the middle of my path to existing, maybe for the better, so that my consciousness is always wide awake. But in reality, being a social insomniac is no fun. I need a night off, a moment’s rest, a minute to check out. Unfortunately, when you find yourself in the “other” at any time, this escape rarely exists. In many ways, for better or for worse, it shapes who you are, and greatly influences how you interact with others. It conditions you, so to speak, to think and respond a certain way to confirmations of your social place card, as irritating as that may be. There is not real answer on how to just be, at least not that I know of. But I am happy to take suggestions, starting now.