Identity Crisis

 “How do I explain my ambivalence?  Yet I do have
mixed feelings.  I feel ashamed and unworthy of the
gifts that have been given me; ashamed for not being a
better daughter – both a grateful American one and a
forgiving Korean one, guided by filial piety, ashamed
for opening my mouth, despite everything people have
tried to do for me, in what they thought were my best
interests.  What an unworthy, spoiled, ungrateful,
whining, American brat.”  -Jane Jeong Trenka, Language
of Blood.  

 There’s a deviation that I have either discovered
within myself or acquired through trial and error.  As
of now, I can undeniably distinguish three disparate
Nedas: the American Neda, who I am to my friends and
others in America; the Vietnamese Neda, who I am to my
Vietnamese family; and the Persian Neda, who I am to
people here and my family here.  Due to my
difficulties in adjusting to the culture here, I have
come to the conclusion that I cannot meld or
consolidate these people into one static person; they
will interminably be somewhat different and
irreconcilable.  Whether this discrepancy is merely a
reflection of other people’s varying perceptions of
me, or whether I am in fact, assuming a different
character around different people is something of a
question to me nowadays.  In order for me to “bend
with the winds” so to speak, I am forced by the
differences in culture to assume someone else, some
variation of my other self that don’t think some of my
friends back home would understand.  And the idea of
“being true to one’s self,” what is that anyway? 
Isn’t the idea of a “self” an ever changing entity?
And what is a “self” but something made up of diverse
parts?  If those parts happen to be incongruous should
I have to choose one over the other or simply assume
whatever one works best for the time being?  Upon
coming here I had made a vow to be “true to myself.”
I quite liked my disgusting boisterous self and feared
the idea of taking on the conservative and somewhat
docile attributes that seem to be so ubiquitous among
the women here.  I felt it my duty to fight this tide
of homogeny that seemed to want to drown me.  In so
fervently refusing to submit to a typical woman’s
place here, I became unhappy.  How can this American
Neda be happy in Iran, a place so different and so
inhospitable to diversity?  She can’t.  She must
concede; she must lay down to the differences in
lifestyle and culture and let them blow over her
without getting blown away.  I don’t think I can ever
be too sure of who I am anymore, just what I like
about myself and what I hope to be.  I have let my
mind slip through the cracks of the plan.  “Being true
to myself” is no longer a concrete discourse for me. 

 Now that being said, it’s easier for me here.
Letting my (American) self go has relieved me of some
of the stress that was keeping me unhappy.  I find
that I’m actually liking it here, which is not to say
that I want to stay here a minute longer than I have
to or anything, but I can certainly appreciate it and
find enjoyment here now.