Distanced

When reading both Shooting Dad and Arm Wrestling with My Father,  I realized one thing: I am no longer my daddy's little girl.

The connection between my father and I has gotten severely lost. I feel as if I do not know him anymore. As a teenager, I tend towards my tender mother with her open arms and compassionate voice. Not that my dad does not have a compassionate voice, its just that he barely uses it. 

Like Brad Manning, rather than using written language, my dad communicates through movie connections. I love that part of my life but I feel that he has grown somewhat different than what my fuzzy vision remembers. The man who always used to quote Lord of the Rings or Star Wars, has now been replaced with this "legen-wait for -dary" man who is just that: a whisper of legend in my mind.

My dad and I were really close. When I was younger, my younger sister and I would joke about who was the favorite. Of course I knew it was me - I even got shirts that said daddy's little girl. My dad used to take me to air shows, my karate competitions, my violin competitions, and even helped me pick out my first bow (not hair bow-archery set). 

Whenever we were at weddings, I used to dance the daddy daughter dances with him. Now I dance alone. I don't know whether this happened as I got older or if it was just destined to happen. 

I still feel an inkling of a connection here and there, but overall its just gone. I used to know what to get him for his birthday, now I can barely think of a gift suitable.
I do not know whether I should fear this or if this is just a part of life; we all have to distance ourselves from our parents, but I don't think I'm ready to cut the cord and let go of the man who often held me after I had a nightmare in the middle of night. 

1884

The sunlit afternoon shines down on the crowd, unnoticeable it fleets.
Shade from high and low trees conceal the crowd - everyone seeking the cool.
No shirts ruffle, no skirts twist, the heat lead weights the air.
 Parasols are out and barely anyone moves.
A middle class mother and her miniature daughter stroll the banks.
Seemingly unaffected by the dead weight heat.
They promenade silently as children have been taught. Yet her mind is going a mile a minute.
But too quickly does the child tire of the inside world.
Her mother can not put up with the insightful child.
She waits for the days when the child will be able to understand decorum.
Sitting tall and standing straight,
she waits for those days.
When she will not resist the baths or throw tempers.
When she wears her gloves and gown and corset.
Looks well and kept and does not detest the stale inside.
Yet they walk on in silence. The mother betrays none of her inside thoughts.
The chatter of the well-lit and well-to-do draw her sight;
a jazz player plays a trumpet nice. Children slightly older play games carefree.
Yet the couple walk on alone.
The river stirs and all eyes are attracted to it. The reflective surface becomes the predator of all the eyes, beneath its current though lies lies.
La Grande Jatte shows a perfect scene; the mother along with all other adults fall prey to its show.
Like all that glitters, draws the eye, yet the miniature girl stares straight ahead, into the unknown.
Everyone around her is in a trance. What is she trying to warn us?
Why is this one girl left out of shade when everyone else conceals themselves.
The pure white innocence on this unnamed daughter throbs lightly, casting light around her.
Here is an angel uncorrupted by the glitz of the water. Untainted by its dark blue hues.
The daughter decides that she will not walk in someone else's footsteps. The mother's dreams drown in the predators mouth. The child ignores the set path beside the river and looks with glee toward the unknown path that lays before her.
Its 1884.

Molds

It is a fact of America that when a foreigner comes here they have to assimilate. Although we may preach we are a melting pot, we are in only sometimes. A typical melting pot melts together all aspects of each race; highlighting one or another, however, society has created a sense of unity through false advertising: the melting pot melts everything but this is poured into a certain shape: society's mold for Americans.

In Amy Tan's piece, Fish Cheeks, she retells one fateful Christmas dinner where she details the differences between her Chinese family and a typical American one. She particularly downplays her own culture in order to adhere to the American culture. Tan's mother helps her realize that she must mix the two cultures to get the best outcome. Despite her mother trying to help her understand that she is who she is, Tan does not realize this important lesson until she is older.

This piece ties into the way society has told us to perceive ourselves. For example, a long braid and long hair are typical of an Indian (not Native American, Indian as in India the country) - its easy and has its perks. I have chosen the best of both worlds: I have long hair most of the time and cut it to become short. Ask around, people normally know me as the girl with a ponytail and long hair. I opted out for the long braid.

Tan, as well as I, have chosen the best of both worlds. Culturally we are strong, yet we present a swirled image of both sides. On the inside she is Chinese, I am Indian. On the outside we are society's American molds.

Perception Conceals Identity

Identity is internal. Perception is external.

Identity is what you think about yourself. You build up your Identity. Its the back of your mask. This mask covers yours face in darkness yet you know what is there on the back; you know who you are. Life is something we construct of ourselves. The identity we create is caused by the clothes we wear, the people we associate with, the events we take part in. Identity, is complex. We create ourselves, build ourselves up, adapt.

Perception never sees the back of our masks. Perception glances at the face plastered over ours. Reads our lives in the facade we call ourselves. We wait for society to place us in a little niche and pat our heads. Society judges you and labels you with its own code. Perception is less complex. We adhere it to ourselves, crush ourselves, adapt.

In Mairs' piece, Disability, perception is exposed for the monster it really is. Media, a intricate part of society, labels disabled persons as a certain type - different from the normal "TAPs," in everyday life (Mairs). The relationship between the two - identity and perception - is separable.  Mairs asserts that the way society perceives her is different from her identity. She supports this with her own feelings and emotions as well as the common things that make her similar to every single other woman out there. The relationship between identity and perception is far from similar. Both seem to be intertwined only because society wants you to think that. However, perception lacks the apathy and distinction that identity grants you.

Identity is a strong word. I can not tell you what it means. It is different to every person. Yet, somehow we seem to be prisoners of Identity. It forces us to stare at a fine line - a shadow of life. What is and what isn't. The reality we perceive is different from that of actuality. Our caves and shadows create us and leave behind an imprint. Plato was just in saying that our senses receive a poor version of reality, in his piece The Allegory of the Cave. The reality to which we cloud ourselves is our identity.

Find your truth.