Lately I’ve been feeling insecure. I don’t think being held by a pair of strong arms is going… Lately I’ve been feeling insecure. I don’t think being held by a pair of strong arms is going to help me this time because it has nothing to do with my sexuality. Last month was a celebration of African-American culture, and now the spotlight is on the struggles and accomplishments of women.

At least that’s what all the posters are telling me.

America is a country of many cultures; the most beautiful thing about this place is that I can say I share the same homeland as my neighbors who have a different pigmentation than me and speak a different language in their home. But where do I fit in this great melting pot?

I’m as white as the underside of a leprechaun’s ass, exist somewhere in the lower spectrum of the middle class and I’m male. I’m also straight and I come from a small town in central Pennsylvania. According to all these characteristics I’m firmly in the majority.

That means I’m everywhere; standing next to me in the elevator, shopping side by side with me at Giant Eagle, and walking down the streets in throngs trying to ignore homeless people asking for change.

Somehow, though, I don’t see myself. If I think about it long enough, and obviously I have, I get weirded-out. I’m the most people, I’m in control, and I get everything. But where the hell am I?

When I turn on the television and see some muscular dude on MTV giving a shout-out to all his bros in Crackerburg, Ill., that’s not me. Nor do I see myself on Dawson’s Creek or in any Ralph Lauren commercial.

And I definitely don’t see myself when I watch those douchebags in Congress pass bills to kill Iraqis and keep pollution-belching factories in poor neighborhoods.

Not that I have anything against the first two examples. I’m sure they don’t find themselves in me either when they see my gangly ass walking down the street. Apparently, though, that’s who I am – or at least that’s who I’m considered to be.

So as a social demographic I get the blanket term: white. Let’s see, what other great things are white? Snow, most paper, toilet bowls and baking soda. These are not things to get excited about.

Not that I think we should have a white awareness month. I really don’t feel there’s anything to celebrate about being middle class and white. And I’m not complaining about the fact that I don’t get treated as an inferior and can afford things such as groceries and basic cable. But I’m hoping that all two of you who are reading this can understand that it gets a little confusing to be adrift on a sea of Caucasian, average-income ubiquity.

So on my journey to the middle, how am I supposed to distinguish myself as a unique individual? It’s too late for me to invent jazz. The truth is I’m not expected to be anything special. I don’t have the kind of adversities to overcome that would give me a soul. Despite the fact that I’m a member of the largest category of Americans – as if people can actually be categorized – I can’t actually get anything done.

If I had a magic wand I could legalize pot, end racism, stop the upcoming war and platinumize my body. I don’t know what section of society the government is catering to when they do what they do, but they ain’t listening to me.

Since this is an opinions column, I’d be remiss if I didn’t state my own. So here it is: Everybody should have the opportunity to be something special – everybody. I don’t have a strong cultural background to spring from because I can’t find it. But that shouldn’t stop me or anybody else, no matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you are. We’re all walking, fleshy structures that contain organs and oversized cerebrums, i.e., people. It’s the who that really counts.

Seth Steinbacher is whipped cream, you are pie. E-mail him at [email protected].