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self-awareness–a bourgeois privilege

November 18, 2009

Debating whether or not I’m going to do anything today.  That isn’t to say that not doing anything truly means I’m not doing anything.  I’m laying in bed with my dogs reading Journal of Solitude by May Sarton and it is making my mind and heart race.  What she says about the frustration that women feel because we are not supposed to feel certain emotions.  We’re not supposed to get angry.  We’re not supposed to get sad, unless we are angry or sad about a man.  But as most of us know, or should know, our feelings are so much more part of who we are, not who we associate with.

I’ve been on an incredible inner journey the last month, one that has taken me to new heights of self-awareness.  But I get so frustrated because I feel like the minute I decide I want to just sit and think about me, my body gets ahead of my mind and forces me to get up and do something.  My body doesn’t want my mind to change because then it will have to adapt to the new me, and I don’t think she’s ready…however, ready or not, here I come.

Then there is this guilt of privilege.  I’m so fucking privileged to sit here in my brooklyn apartment thinking about my life and what is happening.  All of this talk of mental instability and becoming self-aware is such a bourgeois privilege that I too-often take for granted.  looking at the women made famous for their madness: sylvia plath, virginia woolf, anne sexton, charlotte perkins gilman–they all are overwhelmingly white, middle class, and educated (heterosexual in most cases is assumed as well).  what about the others?  what about chicana feminists and writers?  why don’t i know more about them?  why am i devoting my time to what everyone already knows about?  i’m really angry about this.  i’m angry at myself for not taking enough initiative, i’m angry at the society that has ignored women of color, and i’m angry that i’m afraid to identify as a woman of color.  i’m angry.

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