We Wear the Mask: 15 True Stories of Passing in America

by Author unknown | Nonfiction |
ISBN: 0807078980 Global Overview for this book
Registered by PokPok of Vista, California USA on 6/10/2018
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Journal Entry 1 by PokPok from Vista, California USA on Sunday, June 10, 2018
7 stars: Good

From the back cover: For some, "passing" means opportunity, access, or safety. Others don't willingly pass but are "passed" in specific situations by someone else. This is an illuminating and timely anthology that examines the complex reality of "passing" in America. Skyhorse, a Mexican American, writes about how his mother passed him as an American Indian before he learned who he really is. Page shares how her white mother didn't tell friends about her black ex-husband or that her kids were iun fact, biracial.

The anthology includes writing from Gabrielle Bellot, who shares the disquieting truths of passing as a woman after coming out as trans, and MG Lord who, after the murder of her female lover, embraced heterosexuality. [ MG is a friend of mine]. Patrick Rosal writes of how he "accidentally" passes as a waiter at the National Book Awards ceremony, and Rafia Zakaria agonizes over her Muslim American identiy while traveling through domestic and international airports.

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Another book which I read because my friend MG Lord wrote one of the essays in this. All the essays are quite good, with naturally some resonating more than others to my own personal journey. I only wished they had chosen a broader range of "passing" scenarios-- virtually all of them were about race, with one on religion and two on sexuality. Of course, race is a vital area in the US and much "passing" undoubtedly occurs there. Overall, a solid "good" rating for this important book. I will pass it on to another who can certainly relate to "passing" and race issues.

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Some quotes which struck me:

By denying my authentic self I staggered into depression and came out holding a shitload of Depeche Mode, Cure and Morrissey albums.

At recess, right in front of me, they would matter of factly talk about Puerto Ricans, and say, "You know, like Teresa." I have no idea what they were talking about in such a matter of fact way... I didn't correct them. I didn't know how. I wasn't trying to perpetuate a fraud. I wasn't trying to pass. I just didn't have the words.

Thirty years later, I am just now coming not to care how I am judged, not because of some inner strength, but the realization of the futility of caring about it. We're all judged by such complex matrices that it is impossible to anticipate them all.

My female friends had told me stories of being catcalled and stalked before, but I had never understood them until now. Soon, it was just a normal facet of my life, this harassment for being seen as a woman: sometimes comical, sometimes annoying, always a bit unnerving, sometimes terrifying. It became common for men I did not know to speak down to me, often so subtley that I doubted they were aware of doing it. What had seemed so large at first now had become a new norm, yet I still worried each time a man catcalled or propositioned me that I might face violence if he realized I was trans; after all, it is not uncommon for trans women to be assaulted or even killed by someone who reacts in fury to finding out the woman he was flirting with is not cisgender.

It can be a sudden shock to realize that you have accepted yourself as you. That you have come to love yourself. That you have come to learn you would let yourself into your own home if you opened your door at a knock, and found yourself standing before you, a woman without reservations.

Ultimately, humanity is complex, Sphinxian, strange. And I like it being complex. I like people living their lives as whatever makes them feel happiest, if it does not harm anyone else. I do not wish to hate, even if I too must remind myself of it when faced with people who seem disgusted by me simply being me. Hatred, after all, is not so much a failure to love as a failure to try to understand complexity or difference. And we can all be better, in a small yet big way, by understanding that.

My mother told me, on the verge of tears, that I no longer looked or sounded like the child she raised. Acceptance, like rejection, is not always absolute. But we grow as we learn more. We become bigger as our capacity for love does, even if our steps are small.

For me, this was an early lesson in the value of passing. Each of us has two identities: the one that we know ourselves to be and the one that others see when they interact with us. "Passing" is the label that we give to the practice of changing our public identity without, one hopes, losing track of who we truly are.

What I learned is that even if you reach the goal you want--the self you want--you still have to interrogate yourself if that goal is a worthy one, if the self you have achieved is what you thought it would be before you achieved it. If it isn't, then you need to give yourself the space and time to work out who you want to be. you always owe yourself that self-respect.


Journal Entry 2 by PokPok at Charlotte, North Carolina USA on Saturday, July 14, 2018

Released 5 yrs ago (7/14/2018 UTC) at Charlotte, North Carolina USA

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