I sit down during the summer of my life and the fall of the
year to ask, “Who am I?”
We all need to consider the big questions from time to time. The who, the
why, the how. We need to know who we
are, what the world is, who others are.
We need to know about the big guy upstairs and little guys surrounding
us. Essentially, who we are, who I am,
is somewhat dependent on those answers.
I am made of elements, atoms, cells, those science
things. I will die and someday return
those elements to the earth as I decompose.
The earth will swallow me whole, and a part of me may appear in a rose,
a dandelion, be eaten by a raven, a cow, and maybe pop up in a happy meal. That’s kinda weird, but kinda true. One way or another, we will return to the
earth. We are part of something bigger.
But who am I? What
makes me unique beyond those points?
I fear at 35 that I sometimes forget the face of my younger
selves. Who was I when I was 4? 7?
17? 21? Who I am is who I was . . . time is a lazy
river that never ends, and I am the part of that lazy river from when I was
born up until now.
I try to remember what the child Joe felt. I want to look him in the eyes and ask him
questions about the world. I wonder how
he’d answer. I want to know what the puberty
Joe felt. I want to remember his hormones,
his humors, his fears.
Sometimes I feel that I am on top of the world; sometimes I
feel that the world is on top of me.
Sometimes I yell with enthusiasm; sometimes I can barely breathe at
all. But I don’t think this is unusual. It just . . . is. There are days where I can accomplish
anything. There are days where the
actions of the world sadden me to a point where I don’t want to get out of
bed. Thank God for coffee.
I am inspired and passionate.
I am my family. I
have the fire of my grandmother, the fire that caused her to hit my four year old
head with a telephone receiver because I first did that to her. I have the laziness of a hard-working
grandfather (RIP) . He worked his bones
dry and desired nothing but comfort and relaxation in the winter of his
life. I am my father (RIP)—his jumbled
brain and maniac thoughts. I am my
mother—empathetic and sensitive but coated with a turtle shell that grows harder
to defend against life’s blows. I always
want to feel, always want that passion, and the few times I’ve lost it, the few
times it began to slip away, I grew cold and frightened. My passion and fire are everything.
I am the kindergartner who threw racecars into other kids’
building blocks to destroy their castles.
I am the 7th grader who almost failed science
because I fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and she had
to sit right next to me.
I am the 8th grader whose best friend did the
worst thing a friend could do another.
I am the 9th grader who pretended to be sick so
that I could stay up late and finish a horror novel.
I am the 10th grader who encountered great evil
and was surrounded by a gang of kids violently swinging baseball bats. I am he who said I would learn how to not be
afraid.
I am the 11th grader who had his self-esteem
smashed by two teachers, teachers he respected, teachers who hated the youth
they had lost. I am he who vowed never
to let young people encounter the wrath of such demons, at least not in my
classroom.
I am the 12th grader who rarely showed up for
school because I lost enthusiasm for learning.
I am the college student who vowed his life would mean
something. I am he who decided to devote
my energy to others, who found passion, meaning and inspiration all around him:
some wonderful professors, amazing friends, and incredible experiences.
I have known true love.
I have experienced the loss of people close to me. I have had a gun pointed at me head and
thought I would surely die.
Now, thirty-five years later I am just getting used to being
called “Professor.” It feels good. No,
it feels great. But we all wear many
masks; we all have many faces. These are
but a few.
I am a little of all that surrounds me. I am you, and you are me too.
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