Defined By What I (Don’t Actually) Do

My friend Jason is a writer. Not having published so much as a classified ad, it is tempting to not consider him a writer at all, but rather someone that is simply “writing a book.” If I told you that my friend Jason was “writing a book,” you would most likely still wonder what he actually does, and, consequently, what he is. Thus, I say that he is a writer, because he writes (and very well, I might add).

I am an applier. I apply for jobs, and am defined thusly. If I meet you, I may describe myself as a “former teacher,” but this does my current status little justice. I became an educator to serve, but after two-and-a-half years of alternating between hell and purgatory, I walked away (during the worst economy since the Great Depression, mind you). That story may prove better suited for another time, if any time suits crushed idealism, bitter struggle, untimely death, institutional racism, poverty, self-righteous missionaries, and clinical depression. In dealing with these trials, I defined myself by them as well. At present, I deal with nothing except for the fact I have little with which to deal. Thus, I am defined by my lack of definition.

This lack became clear to me while at the book store, waiting to pick up my fiancée—she teaches children, and therefore is a teacher. In my years as a middle school teacher, I would seek out young adult novels to read. After all, I taught young adult novels, and, therefore, ought to find young adult novels to teach, or at least be able to talk about young adult novels that I am reading because I might teach them to young adults. On this day, however, I half-heartedly browsed this section of the bookstore, realizing that these books no longer fit into my alarmingly malleable self-identity.

Next, I moved towards the graphic novel section. After leaving my hellish job, I intended for a short while to become a comic book writer/artist. I have always been a decent artist, I guess, and enjoyed it well enough. As part of my new career path, I would read comic books, read about comic books, read about making comic books, read about publishing comic books, lettering comic books, coloring comic books—I was newly defined, and again found purpose in the bookstore.

Sadly, this escapist fantasy ran its course—joining the ranks of NBA player, rock singer, street musician, Navy SEAL, comedian, and white rapper, among others. This all may make me sound somewhat schizophrenic in my pursuits, but, in truth, my true passions have always included service. In high school and college I worked at an elementary school. Once I graduated, I joined a program serving lower-income schools, winding up in at an all-black school in Birmingham, AL, and later an all-Mexican-American school on the Texas-Mexico border. Once I graduated, I accepted the lowest paying job offered, at a multi-ethnic school in Seattle’s Beacon Hill neighborhood. Although things fell apart (or, more accurately, detonated), the spirit of service remains a driving force in my life.

This, of course, poses a problem. I want to serve, have always defined myself as someone that serves, and now I serve no one. I suppose I could define myself in how I care for my loved ones, in the movies I watch, the current events that I consume, or the cable news that I abhor (put Albert Einstein on TV to talk for twenty-four hours and even he’ll probably end up sounding like a rambling, self-righteous goob). But then, I still cannot come up with a satisfying answer to that ultimate existential question, “What do you do?”.

Perhaps a fundamental arrogance underlies my dilemma. Having always seen myself as someone that helps those in need, maybe I cannot stomach the notion of becoming a member of the (increasingly) unemployed masses. I don’t buy it. I am a reasonably intelligent college grad with professional experience and a Master’s degree. I doubt little that I will end up back on my feet (how’s that for arrogance?). No, I think that lacking purpose gives me purpose. I look around at those in need of education, those in need of homes, of healthcare—of someone that actually gives a damn about anything besides upward mobility, creature comforts, and showing off how upwardly mobile and astoundingly comfortable he is—and know that my life’s work will always focus on helping others.

Obviously, this self-view causes a degree of crisis when challenged, but identity always will. If Jason struggles to get his first novel published, then he will undoubtedly face the problem of many struggling artists: art is not about money, but few people view you as an artist if you don’t make any, or at least are not recognized as deserving of making money. The stay-at-home parent will describe managing a household as a “full time job,” which it is, but the statement itself serves to fill the need to for others to recognize that you actually do do something.

Of course, we established already that I do nothing. More accurately, what I currently do does not align with me self-identity. So, as I wander the bookstore like a teenage outcast in search of a cafeteria seat, I take solace in knowing that somewhere in the stacks a section does exist for me. Furthermore, in knowing that if I find myself engrossed in the Economist or Complete Idiot’s Guide to Exploiting People and Natural Resources for Short-Sighted Personal Gain, I will know that I have veered drastically off course. Know thyself, as the saying goes, whether you desire to work in education, write novels, or exploit people and natural resources for short-sighted personal gain. True, your self-definition may change, your goals may prove too lofty, humble, irresponsible, or downright evil, but only in knowing intimately the rhythms of your heart can you find true contentment. (Note: true contentment may often leave you frustrated, dissatisfied, and discontent, but should provide excellent reading material.)