by Hicok

There is an image every American carries inside his or her head of the perfect person, and we all deviate to some degree from that. For some people, the perfect American goes something like this: white, Protestant, good-looking, professional, successful, family-oriented, nonsmoking, witty, 30-year-old male with 1.8 children. There are many more traits involved, but you get the idea. And because we believe in this (or in whatever other picture we have in our heads), we're all trying to be that person as much as we possibly can. Some of us who can't be the right way, i.e. male, work toward making our traits as desirable by promoting equality -- equality for women, equality for blacks, equality for non-Christians. What we mean is we want to be as valued. When this particular sociological truth dawned on me, I nodded my head in a silent laugh. I self-indulgently thought of all the people I knew or imagined who seem to be nothing more than an effort to be "perfect." There are the young women who join the right sorority and go speed-walking every day in pairs, their hair and makeup flawless. There are the young men who work in downtown offices, wear power ties, and go home every evening to their above-average wives. There are others of us, too.

I didn't think at first to look inside myself for a little comedic catharsis. The theorem that we are all our own best sources of entertainment soon became more valid. I began to notice certain patterns in my life that suddenly felt familiar. All that time I was laughing, it never occurred to me that one of the central aspects of my personality is my tendency to examine myself for "flaws" and work toward overcoming them one by one. There's no doubt I've done a lot of evolving, growing, changing -- but what was the motivation behind it? Perhaps I thought that if I were perfect, then everyone would have no choice but to like me, including myself. There would be no flaws left -- nothing left to criticize. The more introspective I got with this thing, the more it all sounded so passive and apologetic. Now I had a major identity crisis on my hands: as unique and cool as I always thought I was, I suddenly felt like nothing but a series of adjustments. My identity was just a series of adjustments like you would make to a cloth you bought to make into the perfect party dress.

No problem. I always have the answer. At first, I thought I might not recognize my instincts if I decided to listen to them. What if any "self" lay underneath? For a second I was afraid I didn't know what the original cloth was anymore. I closed my eyes and looked real hard, and slowly I began to see. With a breath of relief, I remembered there was someone else inside. I have seen flashes of a woman who offered no option but admiration -- because she demanded it, not because she asked. This is a woman who follows her instincts, commands attention, and loves her life not for everything she does that is admirable but for everything that is extraordinary. She radiates confidence, always punctuated with a smile. She is interested, curious, and animated. She is a learner, for the love of knowledge. The latest thing she's learned is why diversity is a thing to be celebrated: close your eyes for a moment and imagine a world in which everyone is a white, Protestant, good-looking, professional, successful, family-oriented, nonsmoking, witty, 30-year-old male with 1.8 children. Not a very exciting picture, is it? The next thing I hope to learn is that the more I get back to what's underneath the party dress, the more I'll begin to see others that way.