Breaking the Mold: How I Embrace My Unique Perspective to Overcome Imposter Syndrome

I am a 50+ Black woman. Struggle is my middle name. It's really Eileen, but for the sake of this blog, it's struggle. Some situations I struggle through are self-inflicted. Like knowing I should rinse out the leftover milk in my cereal bowl and then be disgusted by the smell of spoiled milk the next time I walk into the kitchen. Sometimes, the struggle is pushed on me. Like when, my parents sent my brothers and me to an all-white school during the early 80s after the Los Angeles school district started desegregating schools in my neighborhood under the pretense that getting picked to participate in the magnet program meant I had the chance to make something of myself. Whatever that means. 

Imposter Syndrome and how to overcome

That's why it has been so easy for me to develop imposter syndrome. That's when I had difficulty believing I deserved success or had legitimately reached success. For example, I graduated from school in February and have written tons of blogs, all of which I have dissected, rewrote them into oblivion, and guess what? I've posted not one article because who wants to read about my struggles being Black? 

How was I lucky enough to acquire imposter syndrome?

I can't remember a time I felt like I belonged. Finding my place became even more challenging when I transitioned from elementary school to junior high. My mother, bless her heart, wanted me and my brothers to do well and have a promising future. I still wasn't sure what that was because we didn't talk about a good future; I just hoped donuts were incorporated at some point. So, instead of going to school down the street from the house we rented in Los Angeles, we trekked with her every morning to her medical assisting job in Long Beach. We three, me and my brothers, hung out together until she got off work at 6pm. The traffic home was a bi***; we sat in that mess for hours and ate dinners late. I guess that's why I never really felt connected to anything except my brothers. 

It was no fault to anyone I didn't think I belonged. Kids at school commented that I sounded white and was an Oreo. To make things even more confusing, it didn't help that my mother was lighter-skinned, which made people ask if she was my real mother or if I was adopted. For the record, Black people come in various colors, shapes, and tones. I didn't know that then, and my parents, bless their young hearts, were way too busy trying to figure out how to make marriage work and feed their kids to talk about colorism or racism. The constant questioning about my ethnicity and culture, along with watching Good Times and The Jeffersons, didn't help because I didn't know any Black people who had those lives J.J. and Penny or talked the way George Jefferson spoke about white people. 

Going to college aided me in becoming my own worst enemy. 

I wanted to find my voice. I had dropped out of school in the 10th grade. I decided to go back to school to learn the things I missed when I started raising my own children at seventeen. I've always thought I had an outlook on the world that, if captured the right way and told humorously, I might have some success. I'm still not sure what success looks like. 

Long story short. Going to school to learn how to write for an audience is dumb. For me, it was. One, I don't like feedback. Nancy, my story about the struggle for Black women raising children in a racist country is real. No, things are not better, and I don't care if you never heard about racism that bad. Shut up. It is. 

Trying to write for an audience is hard when you're Black. White teachers weren't prepared to teach me, the Black mother of four, about how to share my voice authentically. Mind you, most of them were men and probably didn't know how to teach anyone especially a Black woman. So they never understood the humor, the struggle, the Blackness of my craft. I graduated; however, I didn't feel like I deserved the title of writer. Not when the people passing out grades didn't get me. After all, they were supposed to be the experts. I was wrong. I can see that now. 

I am a little quirky and not Black enough

My father is super Christian, not like he wears a cape, but he's very comfortable sharing his perspective about the bible if I have a question. I don't believe in organized religion, but I find solace in the idea we are not alone and that if we all work together as a collective, we could do better. Hell, we've demonstrated separately. We can f*** some s*** up. It is hard having conversations with other Black people when the church is such a big part of their lives. No one pushed those ideas on me, but feeling inadequate was a total imposter syndrome move. 

I listen to all the music. I like classical, jazz, show tunes, R&B, pop, alternative, hip hop, rap, polka, reggae, and anything else that comes through my speakers after Spotify gets off track and starts playing the best of Johnny Cash. Still don't understand their algorithms. I love watching old black-and-white movies where white men convinced white women ( we weren't in mainstream movies unless we were slaves or the silly comedy relief) that being home, cooking, and cleaning while they drank whisky at the office was okay. Hm. That might have been an episode of Mad Men. 

The things I've done, the life I've led, the harm I've caused, and the shame that follows me feel like I fall into any particular category. Let's not forget my third marriage is to a white, recovering republican man turned to an over-the-top liberal; why would anyone want to hear from me. Some people might think I'm a sell-out and giving Candace Owens. 

Getting over myself

I like to overthink every aspect of something so much that I talk myself right out of doing it. In this case, it's writing a blog to express my thoughts and connect to anyone, hopefully, people of color who've had a hard time lifing because of racism, white supremacy, the patriarchy, systemic racism, and the 2016 election.

Instead of agonizing over how many people will think of me as a sell-out, long-winded, cause your girl does like to write, or just plain uninteresting maybe, just maybe one person might feel connected or can relate. 

In conclusion, imposter syndrome is real and has been a devastating crutch that I lean on to talk myself out of doing things I might be good at. I mean, what happens if it works out. Then I'd be happy; what the heck would I do with happiness? Honestly, it may be even more challenging for people of color. We're masking all day long. Holding our tongues, trying desperately not to upset anyone so we can keep our jobs. In a lot of ways, it's harder for me because I started reclaiming my life when my kids all left home, which was only four years ago. I want to lift my mask and be as real as possible without feeling plain ol dumb. 

Remember to be gentle with yourself; you are going to have setbacks. You might be the only person in the room who sees your dream from beginning to end. So, when you're the only person believing in yourself, it feels lonely. Those are the moments I try to ground myself and ask, "What am I terrified of." The simple answer is, what if I am a success? I don't know what to do when that happens to me. I guess I better keep going so I can find out, huh?