In general, across social media platforms, I prefer public posting. Based on what I hear from friends on the internet, this choice may be somewhat unusual. On the other hand, based on the preponderance of news-worthy unconsidered Facebook and Twitter updates have merited, perhaps my choice is not that so original. A more nuanced observer might posits it unusual for public posts to stem from considered, cautious, conscious choice by their author. Maybe the people who get turned down for jobs or indicted for criminal offenses, or etc, post damning information publicly because they have not thought - paused for thought - before they hit “Publish.”
Whatever the reason behind others’ actions and posting habits, I post publicly. My Facebook posts default to global. I lock down my Twitter rarely, usually to prevent specific people from reading specific tweets. I unlock it as soon as I feel the time has passed. As a rule of thumb, this blog has always been public, as have my other blogs, Instagram, and any other oddball network I might have landed on since the Internet happened. When I change my privacy settings, for whatever reason, I feel icky about it.
Recently, I set this blog to private. I apologize for that, audience. Let me explain:
A while ago I was contacted by a recruiter, regarding a job which, at first, sounded very interesting to me. As I went through the interview process, I could tell my potential employer was more conservative than mine in the past, and intending to complete a more extensive background check than any I’d had. I actually found myself worried that an unpaid parking ticket in a neighboring state might show up on my record, and lend them pause.
I believe in public posting, but I also believe in being a “pro.” Not professional, a pro. I don’t believe in missing out on a promising job opportunity because of a Tweet or blog post. That is sloppy behavior. I am not sloppy.
My post “current preface to e.h.b.” felt too revealing of a nature to be allowed potential-employer-scrutiny. So, I closed the blog.
I am not ashamed of this post. I stand by it with pride. But it is sensitive for me, and revealing it difficult - the thought that someone would use that post to negatively judge me - I did not need that fear. I need to express myself. I don’t need to worry that these expressions might come back to harm myself.
I am human and must be human. That post was pure humanity. My pure humanity. Mine.
It is truth.
All my defense and chest-pounding cannot change the conservative culture in which I work. In that culture, it’s okay for a recruiter to instruct an applicant to remove any visible piercings before an interview. In that culture, the head of your department worries what color your hair is. Your coworkers cannot suppress shocked comments if you come into work, hair still wet from showering.
I believe, totally and with vehemence, that all the above, and the culture which so encourages and accepts snap judgments based on surface appearance such as the above, are reprehensible. I believe my appearance has nothing to do with my ability or my good work. I believe that this body, my body which I inhabit, is, if anyone’s, mine and mine alone, and no one has any right to apply judgments about what I do with my body, how I adorn it, or choose to make myself present. Every body modification I have was the result of long and conscious consideration, out of a desire to make my outwards appearance look more in a way that agrees with my inside.
And this is the crux of the biscuit, here: I have struggled my whole life with those two parts of myself, which to many people I gather seem no more apart than flip sides of one window, or a scene and its mirrored reflection. By the time I turned twelve I felt, in a violent and awful sense, that what I looked like was not only completely divorced from who I was, but that I had no control over the former - even though it was the exact tool the universe, to a creature, used like a legend to prejudge me across innumerable axes. The universe saw my outside and drew conclusions about my inside with that sight. It had nothing, or so very little, to do with me. I hated it.
Every tattoo, piercing, scar, modification, piece of attire, make-up, style, and accessory decision that I have made, daily and over time, represents a small step taken to reunite these warring parts of me, the human being. To feel some ownership over a body which for so long felt completely alien and apart from me. To find some peace - maybe, some day ever, in one moment, the smallest teaspoon of acceptance. To quiet the devil behind my eyes that speaks in every sheerest reflection of my body, from store windows to the curves of cups and others’ glasses. Damn everyone who would judge me for that, judge me negatively. Doubt my strength or competence, my intelligence, my power and value. Damn them.
Maybe this is why I try to post publicly whenever possible: I am proud of my life. I am proud of what’s in my head. Proud of who I am. I know not everyone will like me, these things that I have grown to become a me I want to be. But I do not want or need anyone who would want to know me because of how I look in photographs. I want those who read what I write, and like me anyway - maybe even, in a dream, like me more because of it.
My parents’ genes got together and constructed a baby from their pieces. My mom popped me out and by that time my face was already pretty much decided. My bone structure and body shape was decided. Probably my shoe and cup size, even. What choice did I have? Nothing.
But my thoughts are me. And when who I am, and what I think, is as out in the open as my physical image, I find comfort with the knowledge those who approach me do so because they can see my brain, my ideas, my personality, and these align with them and theirs — because our connection is based on who we are, not our birth’s (or blood’s) chances.
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