Deconstructing My Identity: A Work in Progress

"A person whose head is bowed and whose eyes are heavy cannot look at the light."

Christine de Pizan, 1429

All of Me

Prologue

Of all the characters I have studied, mine own is the hardest to understand. The narrative and the themes in this text are set around the dichotomy of a protagonist that has yet to become fully developed. In the end, which has yet to be determined, she will be transformed into something much different than when these words were first written, and her life will have evolved greatly by the time they are ready for any audience.  As in all great literature, life is revision within itself.

 I claim no authority over the text, but draw from experience only to guide my words.  It is my hope that the result of this reflection will resonate with those who wish to peel apart the layers of their own identity, however horrifying the task may appear, and realize that through reflection, acceptance, and forgiveness- an emotional, vulnerable being can overcome, and transcend the boundaries that bind us to a world we may not have chosen, but were nonetheless subjected to. By opening a stuck window in a neglected room, and letting in the fresh autumn air, we somehow survive.

This essay is about me, and you, and all things human.

Part I

Who I Am Is Not What They Call Me, or What’s In A Name?

My name is Melissa Mallaber. Everytime I say that, a loud voice screams in my head, “No, it isn’t!”  Let me explain, and to do so I must go back to the beginning, back to 1972, the night that The Allman Brothers Band was playing in Buffalo.

Mother, 1973

My father had an apartment upstairs from the bar which he owned, and after closing, he took my mother upstairs and I was conceived. Just like that. My being was sparked with the echoes of music, and passion, and lust. Later, she would bring me into the bar, all bundled up on a cold day in January, and he would say “Is that my baby?” He then left for Florida. Tired of the bar business. Tired of the Buffalo winters. Twenty-one years will have passed before I would see him again. My mother loved him too much.  Sweet Melissa.

Of course, I didn’t take his name. Benson never quite suited me anyway. My mother did her best. My grandfather was the best. I fell in love with him immediately. My mother never told him she was pregnant, so when he learned the news and finally came out of his room (after three days of contemplation), he held me in his arms and never let me go. Throughout my life, he has been the force that drives me, the wind that carries me, and the love that measures the rest of my love that can never truly compare. In my office, you will find a picture of him. My hero, and my best friend. My name and his are the same on two documents: my birth certificate and my degree. To me, I will always, proudly be Melissa O’Hara.

Best Friends

That changed in third grade. My mother married the man I will call Dad from now on. A wonderful man who, to the best of his ability, put up with my shit as if I were his own flesh and blood- which I wasn’t.

My Dad

Changing your name in third grade is confusing. People would say, “Why did your name change?” or “Are you adopted?”  I was different, all right. We were the poor people in the rich neighborhood. My dad didn’t have a stable job after the steel plant closed, and we were forced to move fourteen times in the seventeen years that I lived with my parents. I waited in lines for free cheese and peanut butter with a feeling of hunger and shame more times than one. My Christmas presents were donated. We had no washer and dryer, no fancy toys, no extras. I remember my mother heating up water on the fire, and hoping that by the time she brought the kettle to the bathtub, the water wouldn’t go cold. The thought of sitting in a tub of cold water still brings me back to the time when electricity was a luxury. My birthday parties had more of my parent’s friends at it than my own. We would spend the entire summer at the beach, my parents and their friends drinking more alcohol than I’ve seen consumed at most college parties, and trying so hard to enjoy their youth. The days would often end in fights, and the police were familiar with what side of town we were staying in. Despite the hard times, I enjoyed my childhood.

Age 7

My parents were young, and we went camping and sledding, and I have wonderful memories of good times. I also learned a lot about life rather quickly. I became very skilled at how to handle this thing we call addiction, but I was just a little girl, who wanted to be normal, and blend. The outcome was a messy collection of displaced anger, confusion, blame, and hatred for the things I did not understand, or could not fix. I hardened. I couldn’t love like most people. I couldn’t love a man. I used them. Perhaps abused them. I couldn’t love myself. The creative, emotional being within me was silenced and safe, and my outer shell was in desperate need of cracking. Healing was necessary, but I was ill equipped. My identity was hidden under a mess of emotions.

The day I graduated from high school, I rented my first apartment. My dad had a decent job as a truck driver by this point, and my two younger brothers knew nothing of the past. Things were on the up for them, and my mother seemed to be figuring it out. She went to every hockey, softball, and football game they played in, for years and to this day. My bond with my brothers is shallow and distant, but I am much older, and different than they are.  Perhaps it is my fault.

At eighteen, I began dating a beautiful man who would be the father of my oldest daughter, Alaina Marie. Insert song. I had no intention of being with him forever. I believe now that I must have wanted his seed, his wonderful genetics, and I left him to raise her on my own. I repeated the cycle, but I left first. Before he could leave me.

She and I are one, and everyone knows that. My baby. My name certainly wouldn’t change this time around, but my child would take his. Sullivan-O’Hara I like to call her. She is a stunningly dark, Irish girl with the strength and beauty of a team of wild horses, and the compassion and empathy of a gentle true spirit. Her father and I stand united in her upbringing, the best case scenario of how a situation such as this can result in a positive example of parenting.  It is possible to make something beautiful out of something so non-traditional. 

My Daughter and Myself Last Summer

In a search for stability and driven by the desire to not potentially grow old alone, I met a man whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. He was a police officer and I was the president of the PTA. He promised me the world and made me feel like anything was possible. We married. My name changed, as did my identity. My house was always spotless, and I was about to have my second child. Carly Brooke, my sweetheart, was born into a very “normal” household.  We had money; I was running our small café in the country. Things were great. Our log home in the woods was good for me, but not so good for the children, so we moved to a village to assimilate with society. The kids needed friends. I would soon come to realize this was a terrible mistake, the beginning of the storm that would take me to the place I am at today.

Part II

Sometimes life throws us curve balls. And they hit us right in the face.

I was bartending on the weekends at a very lovely place in the country and had made several friends in my new community. A terrible profession for someone who has known issues with alcohol, I began to take my work home with me. On Memorial Day of 2006, after a night of drinking shots of whiskey and beer, I thought it would be fun to sit on the window sill of the truck and let the wind blow through my hair. The alcohol had lowered my inhibitions to the point that I had zero fear or sense. I felt free for about five minutes. Then, I fell right out of the window of our truck and into the road.  I was pretty banged up, and it took me a year to bend my elbow. During rehabilitation, I received prescription after prescription, after prescription, for narcotics that were unknowingly beginning to control my life. I knew better. I began taking pills not to kill the pain, but to give me the strength and desire to keep my house spotless, my mood up, and my body high. I introduced them to my husband. I did.

Five or more years went by. My world looked good through my rose colored glasses, but in actuality, everything I had was on its way out the door. My house, my business, my marriage, and my happy family were crumbling. I was living in a nightmare.  I woke up one day, reached for my medicine and glass of water to start the day, and realized that I, we, had a serious problem.  I spent the next two days in bed, sweating, crying, and mourning the fact that it was over. It had to be. He was not so lucky. I’m still in the process of addressing that guilt.

I couldn’t watch him kill himself any longer. It became difficult to live with someone who didn’t want out. Drugs alter one’s personality. They take over everything. I dropped him off at rehab, and I began to try to put the pieces of my broken world back together again. That was the end of my marriage. I had to learn how to take care of myself. My grandfather wasn’t there to save me, my father couldn’t help me, and my husband had to save himself. He did. He just needed more help. A different kind of help. He is sober, and doing quite well. He cares for our little girl, and he is a wonderful father. But I can’t go back. I just can’t.

Part III

The Aftermath

On December 10^th, 2012, the old pellet stove broke for good. Tired of seeing our breath, and tired of being hungry, I had hit rock bottom. I knew that in order to survive, literally survive, I needed to break free. Alaina and I turned our backs on that house, and all that was in it, and took charity from a friend of mine who had an empty house for rent in the country. I am writing from the front porch right now, surrounded by a field of tall goldenrod and open space. My small boat sits on the pond and my chickens eat bugs out of the lawn without any concept of how they got here.

My Favorite Rooster

A miracle is what happened. That’s what I say.

These words are hard to say out loud. We are instructed to keep our secrets secret. I speak for those who have had a problem with addiction. We are not freaks, we are not dirty, and we are not a secret. We are your neighbors, your friends, your parents, and your lovers. We are the people that you love.  If you know someone who is struggling with addiction, do not shame them; they are full of pain enough.Get help.
Check out this video from the Website PainkillersKill.org. if you don't know firsthand about addiction.

I’m not sure what will become of me. My oldest daughter met a boy and stays with him most of the time. My little Carly stays with her father, who has a television, food, and neighbors, while I attend grad school, in hopes that I will someday be able to establish myself in this world, and stand tall on my own two feet. I’m still putting the pieces back together, differently. I promised myself I will never be cold again.

The Unwritten Chapter/Reflection

Determination is a powerful tool. If you do not refuse to be beaten down, if you cannot silence the voices of those who have told you that you will never be more than you are right now, if you do not believe you are worthy of happiness, and your identity is constructed according to what relationship you are in at any given time, then you will never get the pleasure of getting to know you. You are a capable of change, and capable of growth.

first college graduate in the family, age 38

Healing is done through accepting the fact that the ones we would like to change the most, may not live up to the expectation. We can begin to heal when we realize that in order to grow, we must forgive, not only those who hurt us so deeply, but also our vulnerable, flawed selves. If we do not honor the emotions that are buried deep within, and tear down the walls that keep us from being completely and wholeheartedly free, freedom from this bondage to the past will not be possible. We must learn to forgive. We must write, and honor our own history, but to do so, we need to discover who we are. We cannot forget our own identity, whatever that means. Someday I will change my name again. When I have reached the fullest potential of my autonomy, when my identity is not defined by any outside influence, but confidently resides within me, only then will I be free. Until then, I can be grateful for the experiences that I have had. I have had a wonderful life thus far. It may be hard to understand, but I wouldn’t want my life any other way. I know who I am, where I came from, and I can do anything.

Contemporizing Alisoun: 
A Fictional Story of a Search for Identity

"Yes, I am a Free Lover. I have an inalienable, constitutional and natural right to love whom I may, to love as long or as short a period as I can; to change that love every day if I please, and with that right neither you nor any law you can frame have any right to interfere. And I have the further right to demand a free and unrestricted exercise of that right, and it is your duty not only to accord it, but, as a community, to see that I am protected in it. I trust that I am fully understood, for I mean just that, and nothing less."

Victoria Woodhull

Before He Leaves:

Let me tell you about my love. He is as beautiful as a full moon, and as gentle as a morning star. His hair falls softly over his forehead and curls in ringlets of sun-bleached waves that beg me to touch it. I do. A lot. He isn’t my first love, but he sure feels like it. The night we met, he kissed my cheek, and I let him in. I abandoned all of my fears. My walls came crumbling down, and I let him in. I do not grow tired of him, and he is never too familiar. His habits don’t annoy me. His selfishness goes unnoticed. We speak sweetly to each other, and I remind him of how pretty he is, and how proud I am of him. I cannot get enough of his curious conversation, his beautiful body and his unique spirituality. I wake up and send him a text “Good morning, love.” He sends me one back, “Good morning, sweetheart.” There is nothing I would rather do. Years have gone by and nothing has changed. He is the definition of beauty and art, in human form. He and I, years and worlds apart, have created love. This feels good. Don’t get lost. Nothing gold can stay, Pony Boy.

Watching Him Turn the Corner from the Road:

I’m standing where I can see his truck drive away and he makes a right turn and I can’t see anymore. I stand there. Alone. I’m not used to being alone. Before any fear sets in, I am numb. I tell Alyssa (Tim’s girlfriend), that we have to go because we have a lot to do and that six weeks isn’t that long after all. I drive home and for twenty minutes I do nothing but think of his truck turning the corner, and what that means. I’m afraid to be alone with myself. How can I love him if he is gone?

I come to two realizations:

First, that I have constructed my identity around my relationship with another person, again. Unknowingly, blinded by a powerful emotion, I sacrificed myself, again.  I can’t breathe.

Second, I must be free. I must free myself from this relationship before I lose all sense of myself. I’m suddenly surrounded by mirrors.

I can’t find myself. I search and search but can’t find me. I am in a long dark tunnel and I can’t find my identity. I know who I was, by definition, but I’m not sure who I am right now. I have to get to know myself. I need to spend some time with this person.

I stop texting happy thoughts, and I become desperate and pathetic. My words are weapons used to get some kind of reaction, to no avail. I push him further and further away. Distance has brought out my insanity. He cowers from my emotions like a scared kitten. I’m ruining it.

I write on my bathroom mirror. I count on my friends, and on the calendar. I cry. I can’t stand to be without him.

I start to feel like I care about him more than myself. I question everything; everything becomes a theory. Why did I allow myself to become so attached? Why am I the only one crying? Are all women this emotional? How long will it take until I am better? Until I no longer this pain in my heart? Where do I begin? Will I ever give my heart away again? I think not. Loneliness drives a person to irrationality. Focus on other things. Focus on me. Focus on my own identity. Not the prescribed associations or assigned characteristics, but the unrestricted, individual, me. Not the student, or the mother or the citizen. Just me.
 
The words on the bathroom mirror begin to change. 

________________

I look in the mirror
I see me
A girl who likes calligraphy

 And heart shaped rocks

And mismatched socks

And old, folded letters
In a memory box
_________________________________________________________________________________

The characters in this Blog Post have been Constructed for your enjoyment.

The American Identity...

As told by a hopeful English Graduate Student

I’m sure many of you who have stumbled upon this page have already seen at least one of the stereotypical symbols of America flash through your mind.  (If one were to search “America” through Google, he or she might find images of stars and stripes, bald eagles, The Statue of Liberty, and fireworks.)  I’ll admit that when I think of America, I briefly picture the Liberty Bell and the American Flag, both of which symbolize freedom; I can’t help but look through that idealistic lens.  Who wouldn't want to believe their country was the greatest in the world?  However, we have been raised to sing praises to our country as “land of the free” without really asking ourselves, How true is our song?

So, what does it mean to be “American?” The citizens of this country have a responsibility to the world as a model for freedom. Even after 237 years, we have a long way to go. Based on my personal interpretation of Thomas Jefferson’s declaration of the American right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” I will attempt to explore the “American Identity:”

I, as an American have the right to live my life with the freedom to be responsible for myself. I will be able to make choices that, for better or for worse, affect my future. I am guaranteed my right to live in pursuit of what makes me happy so long as my actions do not infringe upon the rights of other citizens.

How we all wished college
works, right? 

In other words, I don’t believe in depending on others for my own success.  For example, I do not maintain the “right” to attend college because of my desire to attend. Rather, I was accepted in academic fields based on my dedication to academic excellency.  This sounds like a simple enough concept; do the work, gain success.  But is it that simple? My definitions of freedom, success and happiness might seem clear to me, but what does it mean to “infringe upon the rights of others?”  Just as I have my own ideas of what is free and just, so do other citizens.  There is a particular competition within America to define “equality” because citizens have competing values.  I would be arrogant and self righteous to assume that my definition could work for everyone.  So reader, take this definition with a grain of salt as I have have found my definition to be more and more exclusive to my life and the way I was raised in America.

Redefining Equality

To explain where I’m coming from, let me tell you first where I came from. I was raised in a small town in upstate New York; Adams to be exact.  I would be surprised if you could find it without a GPS, and the demographic is exactly what you would expect- white, heterosexual and conservative.  I’m not exaggerating when the number of black students in my high school could be counted on one hand.  I don’t remember have a conscious racist, sexist or homophobic attitude growing up, but maybe I did because of limited face-to-face exposure.  I was raised to appreciate the arts; listening to musicians that were predominantly nonwhite, such as Sammy Davis Jr., Miles Davis, and Ella Fitzgerald; and learning about visual artists such as Georgia O’Keefe. (I maintain that my interest in artistic expression in dance, music, art and writing were born through these influences).  At any rate, I can’t imagine myself with intentionally prejudiced attitudes now.  Even though my college experience in Fredonia is not the most ideal for exposure to diversity, I have taken an interest in civil rights issues.

Immigration Carnival

In the education before college, I was told that America is the “land of the free.” What I didn't realize is how America can quickly be classified as “land of the exclusive.”  Our obsession with immigration laws strikes me as odd, since our country was born through immigration.  (But then I remember, all those people were Anglo-Saxon, white as could be, and imposed power over American Natives. We started exclusion early.) But the exclusion does not stop with race. In the drafts of this project, I did not consider myself a civil rights activist, but I think I am headed in that direction.  My obsession with equality began through my support of the LGBTQA community, but has grown to include work in both gender studies and feminism. For citizens outside the binaries, equality is still only a concept.  Even though I am a straight female, I believe that every American citizen should have equal rights regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.  

Opposition to such equality doesn't make sense to me for the following reason: a homosexual person who was born or has legally immigrated to the United States is legally a citizen.  Since this person is a citizen, then he or she should have the same rights as a heterosexual citizen.  If there really is separation of church and state, then a law denying marriage or any other right based on sexual orientation or gender identity is unconstitutional.  Some may argue that I have oversimplified the issue, to which I have concluded that Americans still seem to struggle with removing prejudices against those who are different from themselves.  I can recognize how current civil rights mirror those present in the 1960’s, which Americans are educated on at an early age.  However, many aren't as aware of the prejudices faced by other demographics in the past, such as Chinese, Italians, Irish and Jewish immigrants.  Reflecting upon history, there will always be a demographic that struggles to achieve equality.

Yes, society has improved enough to deem women fit for citizenship, but there are so many more hurdles before social equality is met. Gender roles are still very concrete, such as the sexualization of women in the media. I'm not suggesting that women cover themselves from their ankles to their necks, but there should not be an overwhelming pressure for women to "show off their curves" or submit to the societal definition of "femininity." Likewise, a man should not be pressured to conform to the socially constructed masculine identity. He should not be pressured to show aggression or apologize for wearing pink. (It's just a color...). I analyzed the novel Gone Girl with a feminist lens. The author, Gillian Flynn is a feminist and invokes some critical thought on gender roles and the images of women.

Gone Girl and Feminist Images (link)

“Fem-Nazi”

It’s funny... because I’m a feminist with German ancestry.

Maybe I’ll try to reclaim it...

I honestly never thought I would consider myself a feminist, but I suppose this is due to the baggage that term brings.  All I knew about feminism before leaving my hometown was rooted in the false stereotype that all feminist are radical and/or lesbians; hearing labels such as  “bra burners” “feminazis” and “man-haters.” A legitimate definition of feminism explains feminism as the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social and economic equality to men.  Instead of being taught that feminism was about equality, I was exposed to the idea that all feminists are over-dramatic and radical.  I soon realized that this view of feminism is flawed, and is a reflection of how women are perceived in general.  Equating the woman to emotion was once so crippling that she was denied the rights of citizenship and leadership.

"Women are citizens now. They have a right to an education as well as career and are independent of men. Why do we need feminism?"

The following conversation took place at a fast food restaurant, between a female co-worker and myself.

Friend: Don’t talk about feminism or rape around Ellen. She’ll get mad.

Me: Well...

Friend: Oh don’t make that face... I don’t understand what the big deal is.  Feminism is stupid and girls are annoying. Trust me, I have to deal with a lot of lesbians.

Me: What does that have to do with anything? You enjoy having a job and playing sports right? How do you think you are able to do that?

Friend: Well yeah, but why are you so obsessed with rape?

Me: It’s a little different when it actually happens to you (cue hushed silence from the rest of the kitchen).

Friend: No it’s not. I was raped. I got over it. Life sucks you know?

Me: Yeah it does, don’t you want to do something to prevent it from happening?

rape culture.

 

A growing part of my identity is my involvement in the Vagina Monologues because I realized that I can make a difference in the lives of women who have been abused emotionally, physically and/or mentally.  Women are still living in a world where lessons to  “avoid rape” are taught over “don’t rape.” Again, I don’t maintain that strictly women are victims in the situation. However, I must be aware of the reality; that as of 2012 statistics, 1 in 5 women in America have reported rape crimes, while “only” 1 in 71 men have reported the same crimes (Sexual Violence Facts- CDC).  In learning more about violence against women (and men) I am now able to identify multiple types of abuse (physical, mental and emotional), and I place great importance in this ability.  Perhaps my concern with the legitimate safety of my fellow Americans can explain my interpretation of freedom.  When I say “infringe upon the rights of others,” I am questioning those who assume they have the right to control another person’s body or mind simply because of their desire to do so.  

One of my most recent poems is based on what I have learned concerning violence against women, the other was inspired by the transgender community. Both pieces are the beginning of what will be a portfolio representing the American identity:

Woke Up in a Hospital Bed

Letter to the Nonbelievers

In trying to explain the above ideologies, I feel I have failed thus far in explaining certain aspects that are crucial to my identity.  As previously mentioned, I was born in a small city and grew up in an even smaller town.  In 1991, I was born with the physical disability, cerebral palsy. I don’t like to consider CP as one of my main identifiers, but I’d like to think the difficulties concerning this disability has contributed to my character in a few ways.  Perhaps this is why I am so caught up in the definition of equality.  I am an American citizen who is, in a very small way, outside the majority.  In no way do I claim to know what it’s like to be a minority in any other sense than being a woman, but I am familiar with explaining personal differences to others in the dominant culture.

Competition

Reader, you are most likely wondering how a woman so obsessed with expanding the definition of equality could place any value in competition.  On the surface, competition seems unfair.  The negative connotations caused by corrupt businessmen and women and the devaluation of hard work, for example, can deter us from believing in competition.  Our history of inequality gives us reason to constantly question the motives of others.  However, if we had a more equal opportunity driven society and group agenda, then competition might have a better name.  If you remember my definition of freedom, I make a point to say that I have the right to have responsibility for myself; meaning I have the right to live my life as I please, so long as I willingly accept the appropriate consequences of my actions and efforts.  We need a better balance of equal opportunity and sense of obligation to ourselves. And sometimes, that means we end up in places we don’t expect.

...which is exactly what I experienced.

Last year, I failed to complete students teaching successfully.  At first, I was completely devastated.  How could I fail myself in a goal that I was so focused to reach, especially when I have never previously failed myself in academics?  A main criticism of my teaching was a lack of management, which is a skill that virtually all new teachers struggle with.  My first instinct was to blame the system, but then I started to think back to my time in education courses.  My transcripts may read near a 4.0, but that was exactly the problem- my success was just proven on paper.  When I had practical teaching assessments in methods courses, I would freeze on the spot, or lose my train of thought.  After having time to process my “failure,” I do have qualms with the education department. After my experience, I realized my time in a full classroom in the early stages of the program was limited; therefore, I was not as prepared for such an environment during student teaching.  However, I see a difference in myself from other students in that department. Some are so dedicated to teaching that I joke they might work for free.  Since beginning English Studies, I found that my passion for feminism might finally match what I originally searched for through education.  

So what does this have to do with my perspective on American identities?  Even though I still support the daily competition among citizens in their “pursuit of happiness,” I have come to realize how much pressure young people are under to plan for their future, and the pressure to choose a career in a STEM field, which makes sense. The rising influence of technology will require more work in these fields. However, the thought process, What will be my salary? is programmed into young adults, rather than What will make me happy?  I am ashamed that American students have a tendency to devalue the learning process. I see this especially in the humanities, which is a much wider field than most realize. I threw myself into education, thinking it would work out because I loved children and school; and because I knew that even though the market for new teachers is delicate, at least teaching is a well known and socially respected career.

What most STEM majors think I'll be doing with my life... 

Can a teenager really determine what he or she wants to do for the rest of his or her life?

The lucky ones find passion early, but what about the rest of us? I for one, am interested in many different subjects, which is why I had a difficult time choosing a major. Luckily this interest allowed me to create an Interdisciplinary degree out of my elective courses. Others are not so lucky, some “indecisive” students struggle to finish a degree in 4 years. According to the National Center for Education Statistics, only 59% of students were able to complete a 4 year program in 6 years in the graduation year of 2011 (NCES). There isn't even a statistic for completing such a program in 4 years.  

So What am I Trying to Say?

In this piece, I have mostly discussed a specific slice of the American identity. My focus is naturally on young people, ranging from teenagers to citizens in their late 20’s.  Attention to this age group seems well deserved to me, because these people are current and future decision makers.  If I may say so, this country was founded on the principle of representation of its citizens.  However, for this to be effective, the citizens must be educated in current issues.  More specifically, young Americans should have a larger voice in politics. The ceremony for the anniversary of the March on Washington was moving, but also missing a very important component; future leaders.  Two young citizens were prepared to speak before a massive crowd on a highly relevant social issues and their time was cut due to “time constraint.” (They wanted 2 minutes). On one side, we are encouraged to speak up when we have a pertinent opinion, but on the other, we are hushed and brushed to the side. I think the disregard of the young American’s opinion has caused some of us to give up on trying to figure out what’s happening in the world. That being said, we need to have strong arguments (and possibly become as obsessed as I have proven to be with feminism) in order to be taken seriously and ultimately, represented.

As American citizens, we have the freedom of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” We work toward bettering ourselves as a nation; whether socially, financially, or economically.  These areas are constant as are the words “freedom” and “equality,” but the interpretation of them will continue to be dynamic with each generation. Americans are encouraged by the Constitution to challenge former interpretations of these concepts in order to secure their rights as citizens. The logic is somewhat circular, but the object is for the people and our government to keep each other in check.

           Some may argue that we are close to achieving absolute equality. I must disagree with this notion.  The dynamic nature of “equality” has been addressed.  However, as a feminist, I am now clearly tuned in to how unequal male and female citizens remain.  I am not just speaking about the right to earn an equal salary or the right to work in a certain position.  My concern lies with the severity of stereotypes in gender, race and sexuality because these attitudes have remained present through multiple generations.  I move to grant Americans a reminder of what our country was meant to represent; to be a people relentlessly dedicated to redefining “equality.”