The Nomadic Life

I have Never Been to Me

Chapter 28

For as long as I can remember, I have been defined by what others expect me to be, never having taken the time to ask myself: Who am I? What do I want? What would make me happy? I have spent years adjusting, adapting, and becoming versions of myself that are easier for the world to accept. But in doing so, I have lost the ability to recognize the real me.

As a child, you do not understand the complexities of life or the minefield you must navigate to be accepted by society. Any journey of self-discovery I may have entertained was stifled, beginning the first time my mother told me “You have to blend in. Americans, especially southerners do not accept people like us.”

With troubles in school mounting, she decided to anoint me with an alias. My given name was a challenge for most Americans, consisting of foreign syllables they could never quite pronounce. After too many schoolyard fights with kids who mocked me relentlessly, and heated arguments with teachers, what I once considered a rare and beautiful name, would be changed for the sake of harmony between myself and my adversaries. My mother explained that for the sake of all concerned it would be best if we find a new moniker, and never again speak the name of which I once was so proud.

“Zeese lazy Americans,” she would say, “zay can say Trapper.”

She chose that name based on her favorite character from M*A*S*H. and it follows me to this very day, a constant reminder that my identity, like a poorly written novel, was easily edited for the sake of acceptance, just another thing I would be forced to change so that my presence would be more palatable to those around me.

Growing up, a difficult lesson is learned. Survival means erasure. I imitate those around me, becoming a person I do not know, even going as far as speaking in a new accent that is foreign to my ears. I pretend to accept beliefs and social prejudices that secretly make my stomach turn and spend years acclimating to this new life and world. I cannot fully grasp the demands my mother and society are placing upon me, however, I do come to understand to “fit in”, I must navigate a world that has already decided I do not belong.

By the time I reach my third decade, a harsh realization hits home.

I have spent my entire life learning to project so many false personas, yet I have never found one in which I feel completely accepted and secure. During my teen years and on up into my adulthood, I am akin to a mannequin in a Macy’s window display, carefully posed for the world to see, and just as hollow inside. I grow tired of changing my ways, morals, and beliefs with each new move. Throughout my travels, and as I slowly grow into the person I will eventually become, I gradually let all pretenses slip away, and soon, to my dismay, find there is nothing left of me but a shell, an empty soul unable to navigate beyond the carefully crafted façade society has come to expect. I begin to realize, there is no substance to who I am, only a blank canvas and a confused actor playing a role he has come to despise.

When Mardi Gras ended in The Creole City this year, I, like many others I removed the mask I was hiding behind, though mine was metaphorical. It was time to lower the protective shield I have so desperately clung to. The time had come for discovery and to step beyond the shadows, letting everyone, including myself, see the real me.

New Orleans is fun, but something is missing. The city has a heartbeat all its own, pulsing with music, culture, and endless revelry, but beneath the streetlamp’s amber glow and buzzing neon signs along Bourbon Street, I feel an emptiness that not even the sweetest of beignets, or most soulful jazz can fill. I can list a million reasons why it is time to go. The city just never quite felt like home, and the relentless heat and humidity are only two of the many deciding factors. Beyond all that, my justification is simple: I am not happy. My search for stability and acceptance will remain just beyond my fingertips if I continue to live in Louisiana.

New Orleans, despite its reputation for openness, still lives under the shadow of the Deep South, where conservative values linger like Spanish moss hanging from the ancient cypress trees. Beyond the French Quarter, strict southern attitudes persist, and the unspoken rules of survival for someone like me never change. I have spent my entire life learning to blend in, to be a chameleon in places that never truly accept me.

I have been taught that survival means masking my identity, keeping secret the many parts of myself that others might reject. But I am tired of hiding and want more out of life than simply existing. Like any other red-blooded American, I deserve to live.

An unexpected conversation leads to my decision to leave New Orleans.

During a heated argument with a stranger sitting across the bar, a simple question is thrown my way.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the inebriated person asks.

It is meant as a rhetorical jab, but it hits me harder than anything ever has. I open my mouth to hurl a cleverly crafted remark, but no words escape. I cannot answer because I truly do not know who I am. And that terrifies me.

That question haunts me for days, gnawing at my consciousness, unsettling something deep within me. Searching endlessly for an answer, the realization of how little I know myself becomes unbearable.

So, I decide. If I am ever going to find out who I am, a fresh start is needed. There must be a city big enough to lose myself in but welcoming enough to embrace me when I am ready to be found. A place where I can shed the weight of expectation and step into the person I am meant to be.

The search begins.

Atlanta? Too much like Mississippi and Alabama and familiar in all the wrong ways.

Houston or Dallas? Texas is still Texas. Too conservative, too stifling.

New York? Tempting, but I have heard enough to know it is similar to New Orleans but on a much grander scale. The crime, the chaos, the expense, I doubt I am strong enough to handle all that.

Chicago? I give it a shot, spending a few weeks in The Windy City. It has its charm, but the brutal winters make the decision for me. I have no interest in trading one kind of misery for another.

Los Angeles? I barely survive there for three months. The people feel too manufactured, too focused on image. Could I live there? Sure, if I am willing to play the game, sell out and again put on a face and front that hides my true identity. But I am done pretending. And my bank account certainly is not built for LA’s cost of living.

That leaves two options:

San Francisco or San Diego.

One, the historic heart of the bohemian lifestyle and revolution, a city that has fought for people like me long before I was even born. A place of activism, resilience, and identity. A city known for protecting and ensuring not only the LGBTQ+ culture but also its survival.

The other, a coastal paradise, promising endless sun, beaches, and a laid-back lifestyle that whispers of new beginnings.

Both call to me in different ways. The choice will be difficult.

But one way or another, a new adventure is about to begin. And for the first time, I am not running away in search of a place to blend in. More than anything, I want to finally find myself and be seen.