Who Am I…?

Who am I?

That should be a simple question.

It isn’t.

I’ve spent a lifetime becoming someone, although I’m not entirely sure there was ever a plan. I have accumulated identities the way a workbench accumulates tools, scraps of wood, loose screws, half-finished projects, and things I am absolutely certain I will need someday.

I’ve been a boy, a man, a husband, a dad, a friend, a teacher, a learner, an artist, a musician, a cook, a handyman, a gardener, a tinkerer, a caregiver, an observer, a listener, a believer, a writer—and, on more than one occasion, the guy standing in the middle of a project wondering where the extra parts came from.

Some of these roles were chosen. Some were given to me. Some I stumbled into. And a few seem to have happened while I wasn’t paying attention.

Some of them came with titles. Some came with responsibilities. Some came with paychecks, paperwork, keys, meetings, and people asking me questions for which I was apparently expected to have answers.

Others came without warning.

I’ve worn uniforms and work clothes. I’ve carried briefcases, backpacks, toolboxes, paintbrushes, cameras, instruments, grocery bags, garden tools, and probably more things than I can remember. I’ve stood in classrooms, kitchens, garages, gardens, offices, workshops, and living rooms, sometimes knowing exactly what I was doing and sometimes relying heavily on the time-honored philosophy of let’s see what happens.

I’ve fixed things. I’ve broken things. I’ve made things. I’ve ruined things and, occasionally, fixed the things I broke while trying to fix the things that were already broken.

I’ve taught. I’ve learned. I’ve listened. I’ve talked far more than necessary. I’ve watched people grow, watched things change, watched seasons come and go, and somehow, through all of it, continued to become the person looking back at me from the mirror.

So perhaps the question isn’t really Who am I?

Maybe it’s: How many different versions of me have I been?

The answer, as it turns out, is quite a few. And I suppose the only sensible way to figure it out is to start at the beginning.

I have been a biped, first and foremost—an accomplishment that took me several years to master. Before that, I was apparently content with crawling around at ankle level, which, in hindsight, was probably a more efficient way of avoiding responsibility.

Eventually, I graduated to being a human, a designation that has proven considerably more complicated than the brochure suggested.

And I was a boy with everything that came with being a boy. For better and for worse.

I was loud when I should have been quiet and quiet when I probably should have said something. I was curious about things that I had absolutely no business touching. I climbed things, took things apart, got dirty, got hurt, and occasionally learned valuable lessons moments after ignoring perfectly good advice.

I knew the particular freedom of being sent outside and disappearing into the neighborhood until somebody called my name. I knew scraped knees, grass stains, skinned elbows, and the peculiar honor of a scab you couldn’t stop checking to see if it was ready to come off. I knew imagination before responsibility.

A cardboard box could become a fort. A stick could become practically anything. A vacant lot could become an entire universe.

I also knew the foolishness that comes with being a boy.

The bravado. The competition. The desperate need to prove you weren’t afraid—even when you most definitely were. There were things I did because they seemed like good ideas at the time. Some of them actually were. Others are probably best remembered without witnesses.

Being a boy meant learning about the world while simultaneously testing its structural integrity. It meant falling down and getting back up—sometimes because someone was watching. It meant discovering that fathers were stronger than you, teachers knew more than you, and mothers somehow knew what you had done before you even made it home.

And for all the trouble, awkwardness, scraped knees, questionable decisions, and mysterious noises coming from the garage, I wouldn’t trade being a boy. Because somewhere underneath all the things I have become—a man, a husband, a father, a teacher, an artist, a caregiver, and everything else—I can still find him.

The boy.

He is still there. Probably dirty. Probably curious. And, if I am being completely honest, still thinking he can fix something without reading the instructions.

Then came man. That one is still a work in progress.

I have been an eater, a role I have approached with considerable enthusiasm and very little formal training. I have been a consumer of tacos eaten standing over the kitchen counter, leftovers eaten directly from the container, coffee consumed before the rest of my personality has reported for duty, and meals so good that conversation seemed like an unnecessary interruption.

I have also been a consumer in the broader sense: a purchaser of things I absolutely needed at the time and later discovered I had purchased because I thought, You know what? I could probably use that.

Sometimes I could.

Sometimes the thing is still sitting in the garage.

I have been an engineer of learning, which sounds much more impressive than teacher and makes it seem as though I spend my days wearing safety goggles and constructing knowledge with power tools. In reality, teaching has often meant standing in front of a room full of young people and trying to convince them that what we were discussing mattered somewhere beyond the walls of the classroom.

I have been a teacher, which means I have explained something, explained it differently, drawn a picture of it, acted it out, explained it again, and finally discovered that the person who said they understood me twenty minutes earlier had been thinking about lunch.

I have been a learner, too—which is fortunate, because learning is one of those jobs from which nobody ever really retires.

I have been an artist, staring at a blank surface and somehow believing that a collection of lines, shadows, colors, mistakes, and stubbornness might eventually become something worth looking at.

I have been a musician, which means I have spent hours chasing sounds that disappear the moment you think you have caught them.

I have been a painter, a photographer, and an imitator/copier—because sometimes the fastest way to learn how someone does something is to stare at their work long enough to say, I wonder if I can do that.

Usually, the answer is: Not yet.

I have been a tinkerer, which is a polite word for someone who cannot leave a functioning thing alone.

If something works, my first instinct is often to wonder how it works. My second is to wonder if it could work better. This is usually the point where perfectly good things begin their journey toward becoming projects.

I have taken things apart simply because I was curious about what was inside. Screws get removed. Covers come off. Pieces are carefully arranged in what I believe to be a highly organized system—one that becomes increasingly difficult to understand when it comes time to put everything back together.

There is always a moment when the tinkerer realizes he has crossed the line. The thing is now in pieces. There are more parts on the table than there were when he started. And somewhere in the pile is a screw that, judging by its size and shape, seems important.

Still, tinkering is not entirely about fixing things. Sometimes it is about curiosity. Sometimes it is about improvement. Sometimes it is about discovering what happens when you adjust something, modify something, or simply refuse to accept that the manufacturer probably knew what they were doing.

I have learned a great deal this way. Mostly by making mistakes. But occasionally, after enough experimenting, adjusting, dismantling, reassembling, and staring thoughtfully at the problem with my hands on my hips, something actually works. Sometimes it even works better than before.

Those are the moments that justify everything. At least until I find something else that is functioning perfectly well and decide it needs my attention.

I have been a handyman, which means that throughout my life I have looked at broken things and confidently said, “I can fix that.” Sometimes I actually could.

There is something satisfying about being able to look at a problem—something loose, broken, crooked, leaking, squeaking, sticking, or simply not doing what it is supposed to do—and figure out what needs to happen next. I suppose it is the professional version of being a tinkerer: curiosity given a toolbox, a little more experience, and just enough confidence to make the situation potentially much worse.

I have learned to work with my hands, to understand how things fit together, and to appreciate the difference between repairing something and merely making it look like you repaired it. I have measured, cut, drilled, patched, tightened, sanded, painted, replaced, adjusted, installed, rebuilt, and improvised. I have learned that sometimes the right tool is sitting three feet away, while other times the right tool is something you invent because the tool you need hasn’t been invented yet—or, more likely, you simply don’t own it.

Being a handyman has also taught me patience. Not the peaceful, meditative kind, but the kind that develops when a screw refuses to turn, a pipe begins leaking somewhere you cannot see, or the perfectly simple project suddenly contains twelve steps that were not mentioned in the original plan.

And there is a particular satisfaction in finishing a job, putting the tools away, and looking at something that was broken, unfinished, or neglected and knowing: I made that work again.

That may be the real appeal of being a handyman. It isn’t just fixing things. It’s the belief that most things can be figured out. Given enough time, the right tools, a little persistence, and an occasional dose of humility, there is usually a way forward.

And if there isn’t? Well, that’s what duct tape is for.

I have been a gardener and landscape specialist, which is a considerably more impressive title than the guy standing in the yard with his hands on his hips, staring at something and wondering what to do with it. I have looked at empty spaces and imagined what they could become—moving soil, planting grass and flowers, trimming, pruning, watering, and occasionally battling weeds that seem genetically engineered to survive the apocalypse. Landscaping, I have learned, is part art, part science, and part standing in the blazing sun wondering why I thought this was a good idea.

But there is something deeply satisfying about starting with nothing more than dirt and potential and slowly making something alive. Of course, nature has a sense of humor: the weed you want gone will thrive under any condition, while the plant you carefully selected, planted, watered, fertilized, and encouraged will sometimes simply decide that life is not for it. Still, I plant, prune, mow, water, and step back to admire the results—until I inevitably notice one more thing that needs fixing.

I have also been a messer-upper of things, which is what happens when the handyman’s confidence arrives approximately thirty minutes before the handyman’s competence.

There is a special moment in every repair when you realize you have reached the point of no return. Something has been taken apart. Several screws are sitting on the floor. You are holding a piece that definitely came from somewhere. And suddenly the original problem seems almost charming compared with the problem you have created.

I have been a carpenter, measuring things carefully, cutting them carefully, and occasionally discovering that somewhere between the measuring and the cutting, mathematics developed a personal grudge against me.

I have cooked. I have burned things. I have successfully cooked things after previously burning the same things. Therefore, I consider myself a cook.

I have learned that cooking is one of those occupations where confidence can be both useful and dangerous. You start with a recipe, a cutting board, a few ingredients, and the innocent belief that you know what you’re doing. Twenty minutes later, there is flour on the counter, something is sizzling suspiciously, and you are standing over a pan asking yourself whether that smell is browning or burning.

I have chopped, stirred, seasoned, sautéed, baked, grilled, improvised, substituted, and occasionally prayed. I have learned that recipes are less like laws and more like suggestions—particularly after you have made the dish enough times to start thinking, What if I just…

Sometimes that instinct produces something wonderful. Sometimes it produces something that will never be spoken of again.

I have cooked for myself, for family, for friends, and for the simple satisfaction of turning a collection of raw ingredients into something that smells so good that people begin wandering into the kitchen asking, “Is it ready yet?”

I have learned the pleasures of garlic hitting hot oil, onions softening in a pan, butter melting, bread browning, meat searing, and the first hiss when something meets a properly heated skillet. I have learned that some of the best memories are made around a kitchen table, with plates that don’t quite match, food passed from hand to hand, and conversation continuing long after everyone has technically finished eating.

I have also learned that cooking is part science, part art, and part knowing when to stop messing with it. That last part remains a work in progress. But I have improved. The things I once burned, I can now cook. The things I once had to measure, I can sometimes make by instinct.

And the things I have never made before still tempt me with that familiar question: I wonder if I could make that.

So yes, I have cooked. I have burned things. I have learned from the burning. And I have kept cooking. Which, I suppose, is how you become a cook.

I have been a Dean of Students, which is one of those titles that sounds dignified until you remember that part of the job involves solving problems that begin with phrases like, “You are not going to believe what happened.”

Sometimes you believe it. Sometimes you wish you didn’t.

I have been an observer, which may be one of my oldest occupations. I have watched people, rooms, conversations, gestures, silences, and the strange little rituals that make human beings who they are.

I have been a listener. Sometimes that has meant listening to words. Other times it has meant listening to everything around the words.

I have been a caregiver, discovering—as so many people do—that caring for another human being is equal parts love, exhaustion, patience, worry, laughter, and the ability to keep going even when you aren’t entirely sure where the energy is coming from.

I have been a friend. A role with no job description, no application process, no formal training, and somehow more responsibility than most of the positions I have held that actually came with a paycheck.

I have been the friend who showed up. The friend who listened. The friend who made you laugh when you probably needed to laugh, and the friend who sat quietly beside you when laughter wasn’t what you needed at all.

I have shared meals, stories, jokes, secrets, long conversations, short conversations, awkward silences, bad ideas, and occasionally very good ideas that became bad ideas somewhere along the way.

I have been a friend through different seasons of life—school, work, marriage, parenthood, changes, losses, celebrations, and all the ordinary Tuesdays in between. Some friendships have lasted decades. Others were brief but somehow left fingerprints on the person I became.

I have learned that friendship isn’t necessarily measured by how often you see someone. Some people can disappear for years and then sit across from you over a cup of coffee and, within five minutes, it feels like no time has passed at all.

I have also learned that friends are often the people who remember versions of you that everyone else has forgotten.

They remember who you were before the gray hair, before the titles, before the responsibilities. They remember the stupid jokes. The bad haircuts. The questionable decisions. The dreams you had before life became so busy. And if they’re good friends, they are kind enough to remember those things without using all of them against you.

I have been a friend who gave advice, and a friend who probably should have kept his mouth shut. I have been the one who needed help. I have been the one who offered it. I have laughed with friends until my stomach hurt, and I have sat with friends when there wasn’t anything funny to say.

Perhaps that is what friendship really is—not always having the right words or knowing exactly what to do, but simply being willing to be there. To answer the phone. To pull up a chair. To bring food. To lend a hand. To say, “I’m here.” And sometimes, when necessary, to say, “You’re being an idiot.” Preferably with love. Because I have been a friend. And in being one, I have been fortunate enough to have friends.

I have been a dad.

Of all the titles I have collected, that one changed everything.

Being a father is a lifetime position with no retirement plan, no instruction manual, and a supervisor who begins by barely speaking your language and eventually becomes smart enough to question all of your decisions.

I have been a husband, which has taught me that love is not one grand gesture performed once beneath perfect lighting.

It is remembering. It is showing up. It is carrying things. It is listening. It is apologizing. It is laughing at things that probably aren’t funny to anyone else. It is knowing that sometimes the most romantic sentence in the English language is:

“I already took care of it.”

I have been a believer—which, to me, has never meant having every answer. Sometimes belief has meant continuing when certainty was nowhere to be found. Sometimes it has meant asking questions. Sometimes it has meant standing quietly in the middle of an ordinary day and realizing that perhaps the ordinary is more miraculous than I had given it credit for.

And somewhere along the way, I became an author. A blogger. A person who puts words in order and hopes that, when someone else encounters them, they might recognize something of themselves there.

That may be the strangest job of all. Because when you write, you sit alone. But you are never really writing only about yourself. You are writing about fathers and sons. Husbands and wives. Teachers and students. People who fix things. People who break things. People who take something apart and discover, too late, that they have no idea how to put it back together. People who keep learning anyway.

And when I look back over all the things I have been—a biped, human, man, eater, consumer, teacher, learner, artist, musician, cook, handyman, dean, tinkerer, photographer, imitator, observer, listener, caregiver, dad, husband, painter, carpenter, believer, author, blogger, and professional messer-upper of things—I realize that perhaps they aren’t separate lives after all.

Maybe they are all the same life.

The same pair of hands. The same eyes. The same heart. The same person, moving from one chapter to another, collecting titles along the way.

Some of those titles I earned. Some were given to me. Some I accidentally assigned myself. And a few I probably should have returned. 

But they are mine. 

Every one of them. 

And if I am lucky, I am not finished collecting them yet. 

Because in the end, I have been me all along.

Every day.

And maybe that’s the strangest thing about all of it: I have rarely been just one of these things. I have been several of them at once. Sometimes all of them. The boy is still in the man. The tinkerer is still in the handyman. The learner is still in the teacher. The artist is still in the photographer and the painter. The cook is still occasionally burning things. The observer is still watching. The listener is still listening.

All of them are still in there somewhere.

I am me.

That guy in the mirror.

The one who somehow became all these things without ever really stopping to become any one of them.

Oh sure, there have been so many other things I have been, but listing them all here would make me an over-doer.

And in the end, I am who I was supposed to be.

But if anyone asks?

I’m Captain Jack Sparrow.

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