Finding Purpose In Prejudice

January 2016

17 MIN READ

Dear Creative:

Life is not kind.

It is unfair, unjust and unpredictable by design.

It is a mischievous mystery that will never be solved, a great beauty that will never be replicated, and a bittersweet tango that will never be mastered.

At some point, it will suffocate you, and you will be forced to question its ultimate purpose.

For all the good this life has to offer some of us, I’ve reasoned that it is more often than not disappointing, painful, violent and cruel.

It seeks to betray you when you least expect it.

And yet, despite this seemingly meaningless exercise in existence, some of us are inspired to make sense of what has no meaning, or to be of value to others in this apathetic world—a world where the actions of one can destroy the lives of millions, as in the case of Adolf Hitler, who as a young man, initially envisioned himself becoming a successful artist.

Some time ago, I perused Mein Kampf, Hitler’s propaganda of an autobiography, and it was then I realized that what one chooses to do or not do in this lifetime—namely, adhering to one’s creative calling in the face of obstacles—is of tremendous and disastrous importance.

Seeing as my upbringing was stained by routine abuse, and, seeing as I’ve had to patiently endure nearly three decades of dehumanizing attitudes and treatment in America, I undoubtedly struggled early on to reconcile my humanity with the two identities assigned to me in America: subhuman and non-human.

It is this looming conflict within myself and within my social environment that forced me to conclude my purpose in this life is to simply reclaim my humanity, to celebrate my human communities, and to challenge skin-centric, (self)segregation through creativity and good humor.

In short, I am on a quest to curate a niche community where humans are celebrated rather than feared.

While I’ve no clue how this mildly absurd undertaking will pan out, the truth is, the freedom to painstakingly play with words on paper—or convert various bits of my abstract imagination into a solid visual—just so happens to be the only way I can connect with people and be of some use to this society.

I’ve chosen to pursue this path knowing quite well that the odds of achieving my purpose are tipping towards failure.

Regardless, all I know is that writing, filmmaking and photography are my only means of injecting some value into our interconnected world, and thankfully, they are the sole passions that breathe verve into my creative Soul, making this life just a little more bearable and meaningful.

Blessing In Disguise

I recently entered my mid-thirties (I tell myself the thirties are the new teens), and I’m starting to believe that life is a precarious mission, whereby the thoughts, choices, actions and presence of every human Soul impact that of another.

As for my mission, I’m here to suffer, to create, and most importantly, to disrupt.

Since I was eight years old, I have had to persevere amidst conditions that repeatedly threatened to end me.

While I (barely) managed to rise above the unspeakable blows delivered to my mind and body, I inevitably acquired—as the fashionable meme goes—more issues than Vogue.

In gradually becoming a survivor of decades-long torture, I’ve unintentionally discovered that creating and crying are my coping mechanisms for handling life’s chronic challenges.

(My creative therapy also consists of offering daily complaints to G-d, singing off-key, taking selfies, and daydreaming.)

In addition to being used as a pawn for violence, I quickly learned that I would also be the target of another incurable disease: prejudice. (And, its close cousins.) This social ill, which has saturated the hearts of so many from the past to the present—in ts overt and covert forms—would prove to be my unwelcomed companion from nine years old to this day, and essentially for life.

I was reminded of the unhealthy obsession so many have with skin pigmentation after yet another unfortunate experience I encountered at a job interview in the spring of 2014, when the executive director of a relatively young Jewish nonprofit pointedly explained why my skin color would be “a problem for the board of directors,” should she hire me for the vacant position I was interested in.

(To her credit, the executive director acknowledged that my qualifications were perfect on paper, and added that my knowledge of Judaism surpassed that of her Jewish peers.)

She then proceeded to tell me that although she was not Jewish, she “looked Jewish,” and that aided in acquiring her directorship.

Apparently, there’s a je ne sais quoi look that millions upon millions of modern-day Jews across the globe possess, and sadly, I didn’t get that memo.

Keep in mind that just several years prior, my brown-skinned father proudly told me he would never hire me at his medical practice—despite my qualifications—due to my “nappy” hair.

Whether it’s reminding certain individuals that my intellectual abilities are not rooted in my hair follicles or having to endlessly explain that the density of my melanin does not define my character, there comes a point in life where one acquires compassion fatigue, and at 34, I was done.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been told either subtly or bluntly that I possessed the “wrong” complexion or hair texture for a job, but at that point, I decided that this would be the last.

After the pain from that fateful interview eventually dissipated, I learned to forgive the director because to a large extent, her flawed thinking was not fully her fault. And in retrospect, I became immensely grateful for her cruel rejection, as it promptly led to my raison d’être.

Fueled by desperation and depression, plus a growing determination to interrupt the status quo, I now perceived my disadvantages and experiences of social oppression as advantages, and blessings in disguise.

Beyond Skin Deep

The fact is, my hue (and my natural hair) will always trump my humanity, and that is the harsh and hush-hush reality I am forever forced to live with wherever I travel.

The human epidermis is highly useful from a biological lens, but utterly worthless from a moral perspective.

However, an egocentric marketing strategy was executed from ages past, which purposely sought to manufacture a fantasy to unsuspecting humans: those born with pale skin or a beige-toned epidermis would readily be recognized as premium products in a soon-to-be make-believe world, whereby melanin would be monetized strategically.

So, in post-emancipation America, my Jewish aunt’s beautiful pale skin would essentially appear to be more valuable than her biological daughter’s equally beautiful brown skin.

This discrepancy in human value or divine worth is simply due to an unchallenged gospel that professes individuals bearing certain skins are inherently “angry,” “unattractive,” “dangerous,” “cheap,” “defective,” or “problematic” products, while others are deemed “calm,” “attractive,” “safe,” “expensive,” “exceptional,” or “trustworthy” commodities.

So, skin complexions are conveniently marketable, and one need not look further than the image industries—namely, television, film, fashion, advertising and social media—to see these biases in brilliant action.

The human-manufactured hierarchy of hues is truly one of the greatest scams to have ever been constructed in history.

Interestingly enough, this “destructive delusion”—to quote Dr. David Livingstone Smith—continues to enslave the minds of many individuals who fail to understand that all skin tones are no more special than the cuticle that grows on one’s nail plate.

And so, with all of the negative commentary my skin has generated in the Land of the Free (and the Fearful) from the twentieth century to this present day, I’ve decided to use excerpts from my degrading experiences to produce a digital media initiative that would celebrate humans—of all colors and creeds—while utilizing the arts to touch on taboo topics relevant to our times.

As a newly christened creative and non-ethnic Earthling stuck in a biased bubble, I now believe my primary duty is to cultivate critical conversations that have the potential to positively influence our hyperpolarized society.

Trading Pain For Purpose

I believe that being treated as subhuman is a necessary part of my life.

So, rather than engaging in a legal battle with the aforementioned director, I decided to pursue what would prove to be a vexing vocation: challenging bigotry and invalidating stereotypes through storytelling.

Vowing in bittersweet tears to avoid job interviews by 2020, I reasoned there were three viable options to make a living or pretend to make a living as my own boss within the next five years based on my attractive skill set: sleeping, eating, reading and writing.

I figured I could (a) stay home and unapologetically enjoy one pint of Talenti’s Sea Salt Caramel gelato every day while watching reruns of Scandal, How to Make It in America, and Keeping Up Appearances until I die; (b) enroll at the University of Phoenix…for life; or (c) launch a creative agency that aimed to dignify rather than demonize the human collective.

After carefully weighing my options and calculating all potential costs (financial and caloric), I opted for the latter.

For the first time in my life, I decided to make good use of all the pain that I had accumulated from borrowing air on this planet.

Although the vision of what I wished to create was blurry from the beginning, the crystal-clear picture that I sought would eventually enter my mind, as I kept writing down what I wanted to accomplish for the social good.

Over a little more than a year, I committed to stimulating my imagination by noting in detail how I could be of use to my human communities within the years to come.

Throughout this 15-month process, I drafted and revised countless blueprints for my creative cause, and it occurred to me that every passion and pain point I possessed as a child and as an adult returned to haunt me.

Namely, reading books on multifarious subjects from archaeology to sign language at the public library; writing until the wee hours of the morning from my bedroom floor; meticulously assembling an outfit for any occasion with glee; challenging the status quo, and pissing people off in the process; questioning my worldview and steadfast beliefs stemming from scripture; engaging with strangers from all walks of life; curating intimate gatherings for college classmates; organizing my peers for a cause; interviewing my ideological enemies at churches and college campuses; evangelizing brands (and bands) I appreciated; and drafting ideas for photo shoots, plays, music videos, commercials, advertisements, and films in my spare time.

Furthermore, all professional experiences garnered over the last 17 years— including internships and volunteer opportunities—suddenly made sense.

And so, what began as a critique of the routine stresses and aggressions I’ve been “blessed” to endure over the last 25 years in the Kingdom of America would ultimately lead to an intense Soul inspection where I repeatedly asked myself, How are you helping to create a better world? How will your work humanize brown-skinned persons? How can you recycle your pain to produce purpose? What are you creating that will be of value to this world?

In due time, I realized that the ability to create had been paramount in my healing process. And, it’s also proved to be the main ingredient that would shape a sense of purpose in my life.

When I committed to trading in my pain for a greater purpose, this consequently led to the inception of a media initiative aimed at curating stories of social significance through the lens of style.

My creative mission had finally emerged from my mind’s eye, and I was officially terrified.

Going Against The Grain

As a recovering New Yorker currently living in the American South, I still feel like I’m in a rush.

I’m in a rush to become a professional writer, filmmaker and conceptual artist; I’m in a rush to get my “revenge body” back (yes, I can be vain); and I’m in a rush to be my own boss.

I want to accomplish so much in so little time.

When you’re born into a family who opted for the traditional route to attain and maintain prestige, and you’ve somehow managed to be the creative black sheep who gets crap for not following the path intended for you since birth, being behind in life adds an extra layer of frustration.

I hail from a milieu of esteemed physicians, attorneys, engineers, and intellectuals, and by the time I was 12 years old, I knew I was not permitted to enter my grave unless my surname was accompanied by an M.D., a J.D., or a Ph.D.

I was afforded top-notch teachers and tutors from Montessori school to graduate school, and so when I opted out of putting my master’s degree from a world-renowned university to proper use, I was immediately greeted with statements doubting my competence, intelligence, and sanity.

In making a decision that contradicted the norm of the household culture I was assigned to, I attracted sentiments expressing everything from insults to reminders of my wasted potential (e.g., “You were supposed to be in Congress by now”).

In the months that followed, I began feeling just a little more inferior than the month prior.

And amid a humiliating heartbreak, several expired friendships of convenience, a mini meltdown (lie—numerous meltdowns), the consistent rejection from potential sponsors (for the aforementioned digital media project), and the abundant negativity from strangers as well as familiar faces, I began doubting myself daily.

It didn’t help that I had this horrific habit of comparing myself to others.

So, in learning through the grapevine that several of my former classmates and colleagues were either leading nonprofits, passing laws at the state level or saving lives across the globe, I began to believe I was a full-blown failure.

Thankfully, there existed a handful of humans in my life who reminded me that my efforts were not in vain, and that alone encouraged me to keep pushing through at all costs.

As of last year, I’ve been working as a hostess and reservationist at a distinguished restaurant, and this was not where I expected to be in my professional life.

Post-grad school, I did not succeed in securing a job within my field despite having diligently submitted countless resumes within two years. So, the hospitality sector was my saving grace, as it was one of the few routes that provided a flexible schedule, allowing me to write articles, curate photo shoots, run errands, and nap while the sun was still up.

There were members of my family who viewed me as a “bad investment,” but within several months, I knew that I was pursuing the proper path because the urge to create consumed me.

Activating my imagination through writing or content creation came naturally to me since my teenage years; however, my creative talents or entrepreneurial spirit weren’t celebrated or cultivated due to the career expectations (a.k.a. medicine) that my parents placed on me.

It’s no surprise then that after three decades of putting the expectations of others before my own, I triumphantly flicked a certain finger to a falsely constructed version of myself.

Tired of pleasing others to no avail, I finally affirmed that I was an artist who was wrongfully programmed as an academic, and I began crafting a plan to execute my lifelong mission sans permission.

The path I’ve chosen is marked by a piercing sense of loneliness, a pile of endless disappointments, and monthly ego checks more painful than my period, and I am slowly but surely coming to grips with the fact that my dream might take another decade or two (or more) to come to fruition.

While this thought does bring much discomfort and frustration, at the end of the day, I am married to this lifestyle—a lifestyle that has tested my patience and my sense of purpose to my core.

It’s no secret that pursuing the path of creative freedom is essentially begging for psychological warfare (especially if there exists a lack of support from those closest to you), and the initial bumpy ride is undoubtedly riddled with more lows than highs.

To survive the lonesome struggle of being the artsy black sheep who sees the world through a high-definition lens, I simply ask myself two questions from time to time: What will I lose if I give up on my purpose? What will I gain if I give into what others wish for me?

In the end, it is always the same sobering response: everything and nothing.

Pushing Past Doubt

As one who has regrettably lived to please people for far too long, I have learned to make peace with myself by exercising my talents on my terms.

But when you have more naysayers than supporters on your side, sometimes the poison of doubt will seep through your consciousness at the most inconvenient of times.

Knowing this, I remind myself that I’m one of many humans striving to reach the finish line, and I suspect I’m not alone in saying there are days when I want to quit, or days where I shout my frustrations at G-d or the slow drivers in the fast lane.

Then there are days where I incessantly question what I’m doing with my life, or question whether or not this passion project is worth the pain and all the weight gain.

In these moments, I sometimes engage in a host of stress-relieving activities such as pretending climate change or death isn’t real, drafting ideas for projects I will never get around to executing or laughing at the absurdity of life.

I think you’ll agree with me when I say that the human journey is far from easy, and as a creative, you will inevitably encounter moments where you will question your purpose, your value and your dream.

And in some cases, you will lose hope—in yourself, in humankind, in your faith, or in your truth—and quitting will appear to be the rational choice.

It’s in these critical times that I’ve had to push myself—with the encouragement of a few—to refresh my creative consciousness.

I do this by envisioning my brand’s inaugural soirée; by unabashedly releasing my complaints to whoever is nearby; by capping my expectations, and aiming to accomplish what is realistically doable; by resting; by reminding myself that there are millions of people dealing with a life-or-death situation in this world; by seeking competent theological counseling when my spirit is stale; and by choosing to give this labor of love and loathe one more chance when I see no value in this work.

The sad truth is, there is nothing else I can fall back on in terms of a vocation, as my talents are severely limited.

On the days I find myself experiencing great doubt, I tell myself there is nothing else I’d rather be doing in this life than achieving purpose through creativity, so I might as well keep pushing through, even if that means nothing may ever come of this.

In order for me to push past my doubt, I’ve had to acknowledge that there is a 50 percent chance my efforts will produce null results, and there is a 50 percent chance they will generate meaningful impact either today, tomorrow, or 60 years from now.

And so, at the end of each uneventful day, I accept that all I can do is continue to take bold baby steps and err on the side of hope.

The Necessity Of Creative Risks

Our time here is in short supply.

Navigating this blessing and burden of a world can prove to be quite the challenge, especially as we are living in increasingly violent times, and I believe the worst is yet to come.

In light of this, I take comfort in knowing there exists a creative agent—and possibly one green-pigmented UFO—somewhere in this universe who is pressing on for the global good, who is pushing for better conversations, and who is in strong pursuit of an alternative world.

Being cognizant of this reality, I opted to bring the future into the present, as was once instructed by a former professor. This reframing of reality led to a concept for an unorthodox human culture that was slowly emerging in my mind.

By taking on a what-if attitude, an action plan began to take shape.

And in daring to bring to life my first curated photoshoot, whose theme stemmed out of a negative experience I encountered 10 years ago, something new was born: my vision.

I finally understood what my professor had advised three years ago—to will the world that I wished to partake in—and I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment after connecting the first of many scattered dots to come.

As the social struggles of the now continue to harm our humanity, I believe some of us have a responsibility to pursue our creative dreams for the simple fact that there exists a world that craves our talent.

For those of you who choose to sweat out countless hours to achieve your ambitious visions, or bypass your bedtimes to fulfill your creative purpose, I believe it’s important to remember that your imagination and innovation not only add value and functionality to the lives of others, but also mitigate the most challenging issues that plague a city, a country or a continent.

Creativity is a powerful gift that can influence perceptions, or alter attitudes and behaviors; as creatives, we have the potential to create a slightly better world than the one we inhabit at the moment.

This force enables us to fashion a more humane world from scratch (or from scraps), whether it’s brushing colorful strokes onto a blank canvas to reveal a breathtaking painting that invites a pause for internal reflection; designing a shoe that steps up one’s confidence at a job interview; snapping a photo that bears witness to an injustice; drafting a song whose lyrics give meaning to life; curating an event that forms an unlikely friendship amongst two strangers; producing a film that shatters stereotypes; launching a tech startup that prevents a human-on-human hate crime; or creating a media initiative for youth that results in one more life-changing conversation, and one less suicide from bullying.

Hardships—be they social, emotional, financial, physical, or psychological—play a key role in the script of life, and they can either strengthen the character or inflict a series of incurable maladies on our fragile hearts.

In my times of distress, it became quite clear that if I wished to conquer this cruel experiment called life, I needed to embark on a creative journey to soothe my weary Soul.

We will never attain a utopian society, and we will all suffer greatly, be it from death, disease or a natural disaster—three realities that humanize us, for better or for worse.

Having lost family members to cancer, Alzheimer’s disease, a car accident, a murder and a natural catastrophe within the last 15 years, I’ve reasoned that life is meant to be hard, and at times, excruciatingly painful.

And being the loner that I’ve always been, all that I have left to get me through life’s rough patches is my hope in the unseen G-d, and a conviction that I was born to create.

As a human being who has been bruised by life, I have come to believe that exercising creativity is not only critical in sustaining our humanity—it is vital in the game of life.

And so, to those of you who are told that following your artistic instinct is ultimately impractical, or that chasing your creative dream is unquestionably irrelevant, I say only this: passionately pursue what consumes you.

Our lives—and our Souls—depend on this.