Memoir of the Anonymous (A Love Story)

No Name to Fame

*ELLE*

Just when I crept on the brink of a profound thought, it got lost among a brew of other things. I would sit in complete quiet, hoping that I could force the thought back to the forefront of my mind. There were times when I came across a notion slightly more unsettling and ideal, and I would verbally repeat it to myself so that I could accept it as true and worthy.

The opportunity to mull over life's principles was one that I never passed up. The thrilling chance of enlightenment kept me going. There were no loyal companions to help me with the process. Therefore, I had to rely on myself to decide whether to agree or disagree with whatever opinion I gathered.

One of those many opinions was that my existence was a small part of a bigger scheme of Humanity. I had yet to reach a satisfying physical feeling of belonging. I didn't know how to play my role in society, based of the definitive idea that I possessed no identity. "Existence without identity."

This is not to be confused or misconstrued as not having a name. Rather, it is intended to suggest that there is no character behind my name. When I wrote my name, "Elle", on assignments, I felt no entitlement to it. It felt more so like a label, a simple way to address my existence.

If I were ever to have created a legacy, what honor could have ever been bestowed upon my name? How would I have earned value?

Even with all the thought I donated to these questions, I never received an answer. I quietly watched masses of people discover what it was they lived for. They had motivation and passion for specific things.

I had ambition and potential; I knew that much. However, I had no aim for ambiton. If I could have found something to die for, THEN I would have really lived.

"One does not truly live until he has found something that he is ready to die for."

I was surrounded by a world of color. Colorful people with colorful pasts who led colorful lives. Nonetheless, I remained stagnated in a gray area. Living in the gray area, I lived a dreary existence that lacked full expression.

I dreamed to be able to walk the fine line of being expressive and, yet, still be tolerated by the general public. The difficulty of this assignment was not to be underestimated. I knew all too well that society was fickle and undecisive. The public's opinion changed from day to day, shifting as often as the wind blew.

And on this particular day, the wind blew violently. It didn't surprise me much, considering that Chicago was the "Windy City." The skyscrapers stood strong and immobile against the gusty winds. I imagined big-time business men, plotting there next economical takeover.

I felt smaller and unimportant standing underneath these buildings that practically scraped against the sky. I assumed that those corporations had nothing positive in store for people like me. If were picturing a bigger idea, then I had promptly been cropped out of it. I was not of the upper class, which meant that I lacked significance to them. Furthermore, I was an African American female. By statistics, the odds were already counted against me. Society had already pushed me to the bottom of the heap.

This cold realization pushed me further to find my life's purpose. Stereotypes haunted me and tried to drag me down. Every day was a struggle not to drown in my own doubts. At times I wished that I wasn't so much a realist so that maybe I could have been more optimistic in humanity.

I often had to remind myself that even those people, greedy for money and power, were ultimately doing it to fulfill their lives in some way.

While they had found their purpose, I had yet to determine my own.

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