A Day In The Life Of An Unconventional Non-Conformist Individualist…
A Price To Pay For Individuality…
We are raised in this Democratic society to always “be oursleves,” to “self actualize,” to “achieve The American Dream,” to be true to ourselves in a land that allows for all walks of life, even those we deem as odd or unusual, to flourish, to achieve the seemingly unachievable, to reach levels of the highest caliber. And yet, when those of us have gone on to do so, we learn there is a price to pay for one’s determined might to hold on fiercely to one’s true self essence.
Those of us who are truly unique in terms of not only our physicality, but so, too, in the manner we think, excel, strive and live, are often times scrutinized and judged for such Individuality. Such non-conformism is viewed by those less worldly, decidedly less wise, less educated, less sophisticated, as somehow a threat to the status quo.
In the 1960’s it was long hair on boys and men that somehow seemed to stir up the pot. (Or, was the pot stirring up the boys? OH well…) The women’s movement brought about a new kind of liberation - a new attitude - for girls and women, which also brought forth a perceived threat to the way things had always been: What? Women want to be treated as equals to men?
Now days, all ethnicities have had similar fights for civil rights. This has been a trademark for the American Way - that all people should and will be guaranteed the right to the “pursuit of happiness.” Although there is no place like our wonderful land to pursue such happiness, we are still - some times - treated differently because of how we are perceived based on our looks.
Take for example, the other evening (morning, actually) when I was driving home from my favorite Sacramento dancing place called Faces. As usual, I had been out for an evening of dancing. I was driving home from the night club at about 1:30 AM and almost to my Fair Oaks suburban home when I took a look out my rear view mirror. I was startled to see a CHP vehicle following closely behind.
I had just pulled out of a drive through eating place where I had ordered a soda and burrito. I was starving and could hardly wait to get home to eat. I was driving exaclty according to the speed limit and with the CHP on my tail, I was certain to drive extra carefully. Without putting on his lights or cautioning me in any way, the car crept behind me at the speed limit for at least three major blocks on the main boulevard (Madison). When I turned to a smaller street, closer to my residential neighborhood, the CHP car continue to follow closely. I was nervous and concerned that I would be pulled over.
Making things more complicated, I was dressed as I sometimes do in outlandish club cross dressing attired. On this particular evening, I was in black body suit, thigh high vinyl boots and garrish makeup. My bleached platinum hair was astonishingly bright, especially in contrast to the darkness of late evening.
Although I had driven perfectly, the CHP officer decided to flash his lights, letting me know I would be pulled over. Somewhat startled, I drove to a safe and well lit area in the parking lot of a gas station. The officer strode up to my window. I rolled the window down and asked, “What did I do wrong?”
The officer gave me the old standby - “You were weaving.”
“Really?” I asked.
The truth is, I had not been drinking ( I don’t drink alcohol) and I was going exactly the speed limit. I explained to the officer I had been to Faces in the downtown area and that I always go there once or twice a week for dancing. Although Faces is a very popular local nightclub, he acted as though he had never heard of the place before.
I expalained to him that I was on my way home and that I had a phobia of police men since I had been harrassed in the past. He held up a flashlight in front of me and while I sat in my driver’s seat, he held up a pen and asked me to follow the item with my eyes. I did so, successfully. When he asked me, “Have you been drinking?” I ansered hastily, “No way, Jose.”
“My name is not Jose,” he responded.
And then I took note - the officer was hispanic. I felt embarrassed at that point that I had said something that might have been considered a “racial slur,” so I apologized to the officer. The officer checked with headquarters and of course, I was ok’d (no record). The officer told me I was free to go, but I bid him a “thank you,” and even a “keep up the good work.”
Although my “no way Jose” comment might have been construed as a judgemental racist term, so was his action to chose to pull over someone like myself, who stood out in the glimmer of the otherwise mundane evening time. Flamboyancy comes with it’s down side, and being noticed by the police is, on occasion, one of them.
