Who Are You?

Oftentimes I hear questions like “who are you?”

“Who are you?” It's a seemingly elementary question. But that’s not always the case, especially followed by questions that limit what should be a limitless answer.

Tell me who you are without saying what you do. Who are you without your name? Describe yourself without your physical attributes. Show me who you are when no one is watching. Who are you when there’s a spotlight on you? Show me who you are.

These prompts are, maybe, thought provoking. But they can also be damaging. They make me wonder what those people are really trying to achieve. Why would I care who I would be if I stripped myself down to mere ligaments, tendons, blood, and bile? How far do you strip yourself down before it’s ok to say who you really are? Down to a spec? Well, then that wouldn’t make me all that special now would it? It would make me just like you, which is fine if that were the goal; but it’s not. This question of identity is asking what defines me, what sets me apart. And every thing I witness, touch, taste, and smell with my heart, my body and soul make me who I am. Take any of those things away and I’m a stranger to even myself. And you wouldn't recognize me either, because I wouldn't be me.

Without my jobs you’d never know I don’t care about money. It’s a means to an end. And like most, I do in fact like money. Don’t get me wrong. But I don’t crave it. I crave what I can do with it. And there’s a big difference. The work I’ve done up until now has been jobs that bring me some type of fulfillment. I coach because of the influence my coach had on me growing up. She helped me to find ways to deal with my life with direction, confidence, and determination. I’m a culture bearer because I want to create. I want to convey feeling. I want my thoughts to manifest in an array of physical forms. Yes, my time is compensated but my heart is full. I work to make a difference in myself and others. It’s an integral part of who I am. And it’s just as important as each freckle on my chin or hair on my head.

If not for my mahogany shoulder length hair; maple almond shaped eyes; carmel colored heart shaped face; the five feet and eleven inches that I stand; my sweet fruity floral scent; my well kept deep burgundy manicure and matching pedicure; my animated eyebrows; wispy eyelashes; my delicate ears adorned by simple studs from cartilage to lobe; my guilty peach blush; my winged eyeliner; my rugged yet whimsical style of dress, how would you see me?

Without my continuously insufficient amount of new literature; my sincere fondness of the art of chess; or my love of the silence in music; or my love of a strapping man dressed like a bat who charismatically saves the day, at night; or my desire to create new universes while giving old language new meaning and new words nostalgic feelings, what would bring me joy?

When I want to spend the night drinking drinks that sneak up on me while dancing like my feet can’t stop, like my hips’ sway heal a week’s worries away, and like the tension in my shoulders eases with each beat’s drop, how would I sooth?

If I couldn't drive a thousand miles ten miles over the speed limit with three red bulls; gummy worms; a pack of gum; cheetos; ice water; and an oldies but goodies playlist through the night into the morning; or spontaneously fly to the beach for a day or two, how would you find me?

Who would I be if a little girl didn’t run with her arms spread wide around in unabashed rings in the grass singing “wee wa wee” like it made the flowers grow? I wouldn’t be me.

I wouldn’t be me if I knew what I wanted to eat more than I knew what I didn’t want. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t shower in the morning, middle of the day, and before bed. I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t find something to love even in darkness. If I didn’t love gossip in bar bathrooms, I wouldn’t be me. I’d be the stranger in the next stall over. I’d be someone else. I wouldn’t have dark circles under my eyes, or the stretch marks on my thighs. I’d be shorter. I’d be thinner. My smile wouldn’t encourage yours. My tears wouldn’t flow when I’m overly excited, happy or sad. I’d only watch movies one time. I’d love commercials. I’d never seen the irony in love and hate, or how quickly their lines blur. I’d never know how good it feels to be an oxymoron, a goofball, a shy yet serious fairy with a wicked side.

I wouldn't be, if I weren't me.