second-class (essay)

i often wonder what it would be like to be endowed with a consistent and positive self-image over an extended period of time. would i be so motivated if i didn’t always feel not good enough? would i be as generous if i automatically accepted that people might actually want to be in my company? or would a positive acceptance of myself ultimately make me lazy for accolades and accomplishments?

despite the genetic luck and environment from which i have drawn a certain amount of intelligence, and adequate physical features – from a young age, it was always abundantly clear to me that i just didn’t measure up on some core level. i was unpopular in school, i was not a prodigy on the violin, and i did not have the charm and fashion-sense projected from every television or movie screen. besides the things i could do at a median level (mainly, music), there always seemed a myriad of things i could *not* do (dance, visual arts, sewing, physical sports,writing, photography, etc). back then, i had not refined my ability for speech into anything resembling articulate and impassioned, and my propensity to talk was deemed annoying by my father (so much so as to be routinely physically punished for talking too much), which i’m sure took a toll on my confidence for public speaking, a skill i have since honed as an activist and union leader.

this frustration with second-class status (next to my more popular, better looking and more articulate peers) at first was a torment, particularly in my late childhood and early teenage years – but as i grew older, i subverted that pain into a rejection of the standards set in front of me and rather than fighting my way through it, drugs and alcohol became a way to inure myself to the hurts and alienation. this way, if i failed, it was because i wasn’t trying not because of a deficiency in intelligence or charm; if i didn’t fit in, it was because i didn’t want to, not because i was rejected by those around me. as a protective mechanism, the “punk” lifestyle and addiction provided a harbour for all the angst and abuse awash inside me. in this way, i found community of other broken people, which interupted the projection of the way things are “supposed” to be, and showed me a different film altogether.

as it goes, we grow up if we are so blessed as to escape the hazards of adolescence, and i grew into activism and university after some period of wandering drunkenly inside myself. a series of events propelled me into vancouver and after a decade into my life on the mainland – with decent career prospects in the communications field (all that talking turned out to be good for something) and a solid foot into the leadership of my union – i have exorcised at least some of my demons. but despite the fact that i have achieved a good job, a locally-popular band, a home of my own, a university degree and a technical diploma, support from my union membership, awards at work, and the support of wonderful and creative friends (not to mention developing skills in cooking, gardening, photography, and other creative arts) – i have never shaken the feeling that i am still at the root, very flawed – a product made from inferior moral stature and work ethic.

this lack of positive self-image is not something i am particularly proud of, nor is it lost on me the fact that i torment myself with it despite the list of privileges i have had bestowed upon me by sheer dint of being born white, with full faculties, and into a middle-income family. despite that, i do often wonder how much my motivation to achieve comes from that place, and i worry about losing my “edge” should i ever get to a place where i am completely self-satisfied.