You can’t define me: An open riff on identifying as 'mixed' everything.

Writing Gods: Reflections on writing and other creative pursuits. Yessir.

“The body is mortal. The soul never dies.” — Ne-Yo.

Who you perceive me to be is not who I am. I will not be defined, limited by or confined to your categorizations. I am free. I AM freedom.

I posted that on Sunday, April 24th in the evening.

I don’t like to be defined. Boxes, whether physical or social in nature, make me claustrophobic. Dogs poop in boxes and I too have much of the same impulse when in them. Yes, I equally feel like shitting all over the place.

It’s natural to want to be free and yet we’re trained from a very young age to be organized, classified and obedient. We’re praised for our ability to fall in line. We’re taught to slice and dice the world and those around us into nationalities, religion, race, gender, sexual orientation and more.

Here’s the thing: that doesn’t work me. Who came up with this shit anyways? Walmart called and said they want their poorly-made, mass-produced identities back. Yeah, you can also return your nasty-ass snuggie along with it. In the meantime, I’m Amazon Priming the shit out of my truest higher self.

Thanks to the internet, you can now express order these things. Thank God.

I’m more than just a mixed unicorn.

This I’ve known since the dawn of time, but haven’t verbalized or embodied as clearly as I’d like. Comedy has so graciously shown me my mixed relationship to personally feeling mixed and multi-cultural. My dad’s Hispanic and my mom’s German-French. He’s Americanized and she’s just American. Most of my Spanish speaking family in the states has passed away. I’m one of the only one of my generation that speaks fluent Spanish and has strong ties to my Latin roots.

It’s been this way since the time I was little. And yet I’m judged by who I was born next to. Where I was raised. By who they are. By majority opinion. By context.

But that’s not who I am. Latin, white, girl, boy, lioness (closer), human, sister, spirit… The list is endless and all are pointers at best to what I know to be true. What I feel resonate in the spiritual marrow of my bones.

What’s stranger and more infuriating still is the audacity that comes along with telling someone who they are. What makes someone think they carry such a right?

Why do I feel I must fight for the right to express how I feel and who I am? What if I just…expressed? Emoted? Shone?

The trap is to believe we first need validation or approval from the very entity we feel oppressed by. Think about how we unknowingly fit ourselves into the boxes that others make for us.

It’s like they lay out the box and we hop right in.

No sir. I’m shedding your views of me and the validity I myself have placed in them.

I’m a free bird.

Let me fly.

The body is mortal. The soul never dies.

My lens of the world is primarily a spiritual one. I view myself first and foremost as a soul. And as it so happens, she doesn’t really care for labels.

To play within the confines of these boxes is to defy one of the my most core truths, the very nature of my being. Comedy has helped me to see this.

You cannot define me and I refuse to be contained.

Who I was is not who I am.

And will never be again.

I will love myself enough to allow myself to be free.

I am free.

And I’m soaring like an eagle mother f!!ker so shit or get off the pot.

[This is part of a 30 day, comedic writing challenge entitled Advice For The End Of The World. Receive all 30 days of humor here:]