‘Who am I?’
It seems like an ominous question. One that belongs in the same philosophical realm as “What is the meaning of life?” Yet it’s a question that we all need to ask ourselves occasionally.
I have struggled for the last decade with my identity. I don’t feel as though I really know who I am. This is mostly because I don’t have a glamorous career or prestigious job title to ‘subtly’ insert if and when someone asks, “Who are you?”
More often than not in our culture, “Who are you?” is synonymous with “What do you do?” or “What do you have?” It’s as if we have spent so much of our time chasing these fancy titles and expensive toys that it only seems fitting to include them in the definition of who we are.
I struggle with identity mostly because I feel like some sort of under performing schmuck when I say “I’m Dave, the customer service agent.” There’s a level of shame and regret that accompanies the admission of my less than stellar job title that allows for few indulgences at the age of 30. It’s as though my decision to forgo university until I truly knew what I wanted to spend tens of thousands of dollars studying precluded my chance at capturing a piece of the North American dream. I don’t have a big expensive house or a liquor cabinet filled with expensive scotch. Nor can I afford to put my kids in all the extra curricular activities they want or go on a nice vacation every year.
I can’t afford all the shiny stuff that our overindulgent culture values so much.
And I struggle with knowing who I am.
I recently spent some time alone with Dida, my wife’s Croatian grandfather, for the very first time. It’s not like I’ve never had a one-on-one conversation with the man, it’s just that it was the first time that no one else was around. Just me and him.
As many conversations begin, we started chatting about the little things that have been happening since we saw each other last. Job opportunities that didn’t work out. How walking in the cold for thirty minutes hurts his lungs and leaves him lightheaded at the age of 80. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn from how he feels so much older than he is after two open heart surgeries, to how things used to be for him in the old country, when he was young and healthy.
He told me stories of growing up with no technology, where every conversation happened face to face. He talked of things that he and his brothers used to do to pass the time, celebrations that lasted for days because a friend was getting married or just because they wanted to party. It all sounded so simple, yet extremely rich. A life of deep relationships, void of endless distractions.
I have never heard Dida talk about immigrating to Canada, nor why he decided to leave his family behind to start a new life with his wife and two kids. Especially when he didn’t even know the language.
“Opportunity,” he said.
I suppose that’s why most people emigrate, isn’t it? The allure of something better. Dida told me how the only English word he knew when he landed was “Okay.” He vividly described the difficulties of learning the language while working in a cabinet shop just so his kids could have a chance at a better life, a life that he that he could not provide for them in Croatia.
As I listened to him talk of the old days and how simple things were back home, I found myself drifting away from the “must have” culture we live in and imagined a simpler life where all the shiny stuff doesn’t matter. I found myself longing to live in a time and place where people and relationships were revered above possessions and status, where identity wasn’t tied up in what we have or what we do, but rather through the strength with which we love those around us: through the lengths we are willing to go in order to create opportunities for our families. Through our willingness to sacrifice ourselves, our identities, so that others may thrive.
I imagined myself in my dear Croatian grandfather’s position. I wondered if I’d have the courage to uproot my family from everything they have ever known in hopes that the idealistic opportunity I dreamt of would be waiting for us on the other side.
I wondered if I would have the courage to sacrifice my identity so that my family could really discover theirs.
As I sit now and contemplate these things, I feel torn. I am torn between wrapping my identity up in the things I have and the titles I hold. It’s easy to define yourself when you can see everything that you have acquired.
But I don’t want the easy way out.
When I get to be 80, and my head is spinning while my lungs burn from walking for thirty minutes in the cold, I don’t want to look back on my life and see a golden trail of fancy job titles and expensive toys. I want to see a weathered path of deep relationships, rich experiences, and selfless sacrifice. I want to know that what I leave behind will continue for generations and will not be replaced when something newer and better comes along.
Today, the trail behind me looks like a zig-zagging mess with tracks veering from one side of the path to the other. I am constantly stuck fumbling around in the gray area between cultural expectations and who I truly want to be. Someday, none of that shiny shit will matter to me.
Someday, I will know who I am.
Flickr photo (cc) by MorkiRo
