The Politicisation of My Being ( aka the Return of the Lazy Blogger)

Hello, one and all! I haven't been writing, even though I said I would and there is no excuse for this. Although, paradoxically, a small part of me thought I could get away with this because who reads what I write anyway and the whole point of this blog is instigate catharsis and make sense of the world not viewership (again, although both things would not be unwelcome *hint hint*)

But I've returned to the blogosphere to discuss the fact that I don't exist outside of my external, visible attributes. No, this is not some Matrix, post-modern stuff. It's simply my reality - one that is becoming inescapable the longer I am here. What I am referring to is the fact that my entire being has been politicised - without my consent. All my actions are understood through the lens of a wider community/cause not simply because I wanted to do something. Suddenly, my actions are only acceptable if they are a microcosmic representation of some struggle or macrocosmic point. Since you can't see me, no do I wish to be seen here, I am a black, African (hence immigrant due to my physical location being outside my home nation), woman. I became black and African when I landed on the shores where the weather can best be described as 50 Shades of Grey, owing both the varying hues the sky takes and how thrilling, and simultaneously painful, experiencing this weather is. I've always been a woman but I only became a woman, imbued with gender stereotypes I was expected to renounce and a history I was meant to overcome when I moved here. Similar could be said of my blackness and Africaness. As I moved, my being was imbued with stereotypes fuelled by race and xenophobia that I must fight against everyday.

You want examples, I'll give you examples.

1. When I went natural, very few could fathom why I would want unruly hair that rejects moisture like Harry denounces Lord Voldermort. Very few could understand why cut my long straight hair in favour of a look that aged me, while simultaneously making me look like a little boy. The only way they could understand my decision is if they decided that is was an act of political resistance against European standards of beauty rather than the simple, getting my hair relaxed hurt like a mother and I pulled a Doctor Who (circa War Doctor) and said 'No More'. 
2. If I was to insist upon going by my African name, many would view it as a rejection of language of my oppressors and a releasing of the self from the cage of neo-colonialism when, most likely, it would be because I like my name. I like that it means 'the one who spills milk'. 
3. Or how as a black individual, I am expected to support the BLM movement. Even though I do, the element of choice, for me, is removed.
4. Or how I act 'sassy', when, if it someone else that behaviour would be considered 'rude'. Or when being late is fine for me but for others is just horrible social practice. Or when I am outspoken, I am loud and aggressive but when my white friend is outspoken, they are passionate. Or how I become the torch bearer for black culture when among white friends even though, and they know this, I AM NOT FROM HERE!
5. The second I mention to people that I am from Africa, born and raised despite what my accent would have you believe, I suddenly become a representative of the entire continent and I can not stop speaking in my 'White People are Watching' voice. That I suddenly cannot afford to look scruffy or scabby. That I cannot afford to look ignorant or make a mistake, else I fulfil a stereotype about Africans. 
6. The most palpable for me one is living in a world knowing that my presence in the job market presents a number of markers that allows companies, and universities alike, to meet their diversity quota. That I exist as a token - a device that allows most people to say, 'I'm not racist, I have a black friend'. 'Or our company is x% diverse'.

In this country, I cease to exist independent of race and nationality. How best do I phrase this better for clarity? To the outside world, my personality, my essence, my very being is predetermined by my colour and nationality. Those things provide the markers upon which you can grade my performance and determine who you think I am. That I am smart, is not average, but impressive because of preconceived stereotypes about my race. That I know English well (don't get me started on 'knowing English' as a yardstick for intelligence) and I am articulate is not ordinary but remarkable because I am foreign (even though in order get a Visa and to get citizenship, I have to know English better than most Englishmen so my ability to grasp English should not be a surprise) and black.

Here's the problem with categories like ethnicity, nationality, gender, age, religion and so on. They become categories to slot people into without discovering anything about the person themselves. While I grasp the ontological and epistemic necessity of such categories ─ in that at the end of the day we are human beings and to be human is to categorise: it's the best way of filing away information and mapping a path towards its rediscovery ─ I also lament that as a society we are so reliant and dependent upon these categories that we no longer feel the need to search deeper. Once a 'thing' has been given a name and classed, it no longer matters how that thing operates because that 'thing' can only fit into a particular class if it fits certain characteristics of that class. There's a certain roundness to this. A circle if you will. But human beings are not meant to be imagined in this way. It leaves out the possibility for nuance.

For a while I was okay with that. I thought it made me special because it made me different. Because I was the bearer of knowledge and experiences that many may never live. But as I am faced with a choice of staying here and going home, I realise that should I stay, I would never simply be, Aileen. I would be Black, African, Female Aileen. Though the experiences I have had as a result of my external, visible traits feed 'Aileen', for many who I am ends at my blackness, my Africaness and my femininity.

Though this post may have devolved into the ramblings of a 20-year old who has had one to many cups of coffee, the central point is this; I am tired of my being being politicised all the time. Of having no motivation or reason to act outside of a wide cause or in service to a specific community. But in the world we live in, at least the world I live in, I doubt this will stop any time soon.