The Other

For those who must check "OTHER"

   I have a real problem with this essay.  First of all, no teen feels like they belong anywhere.  Secondly, some teens have it worse than others; I happen to be one of those teens.   I am obviously not a jock, clearly I am not going to be the president of the “Unicorn Club” anytime soon and I will not be peer pressured into smoking cocaine with the junkies.  So not only am I an outcast, but now I have been asked to write an essay explaining why. 
    All of the categories you listed on the assignment description do not apply to me.  Whenever I am given a survey, I frequently find I must check “other”.  I do not really know what class I belong to because we are fake “rich”; I belong to a wealthy family but we cannot be that wealthy because my parents are always worrying about money.  I am adopted and I am still not sure what ethnicity I am, although my mom says I might be part black because of my curly hair and “ghetto booty”.  I do not believe in God, so I guess you can consider me religionless, but I do believe in mythical creatures, parallel realities and extraterrestrials.
    I guess, by default, that makes me an artist.  Artists are generally dreamers, visionaries, loners, extremely open-minded, self-motivated, independent, focused, extraordinarily creative, rebellious, multi-talented geniuses.  Just like me.  There are no cliques and the beliefs, dreams and visions are individual to each creator.  The only rule in this community is that there are no rules.  Or as the famous artist William Blake said, “I must create my own system or be enslaved by another man’s.”
    Creative types have some other traits that lead me to believe I belong to the their community.  Artists are also generally moody, selfish, manic, narcissistic, addictive, depressed, neurotic, anxious, finger-pointing geniuses and...did I mention moody?  Just like me.  But is this not part of the mystique of being an artist?  The unspoken rule is that you can be a messed-up outcast as long as you are talented.   As it turns out, the problem is not the essay, it is me.  Nope, never mind, it’s the essay.  
    In conclusion, I would like to thank you for forcing me to examine where I belong.  Not only did it give me the opportunity to express my teenage angst, but I have also found a community based on not belonging anywhere...a community where I finally feel like I belong.       Therefore, by calling myself an artist I hereby grant myself permission to be D, all of the above.