Old Soul Mama with Swirly Notebook and Sense of Humor

This past semester I took a graduate course in personality development.  It was an interesting course—mostly based in educational psychology—but interesting for teachers and future teachers, and certainly something very useful for anyone going into the field of education.  One of the first assignments in the class was for each of us to give ourselves a rough assessment of our own personality.

Who do we think we are?  How do others see us?

These are vastly enormous philosophical questions that require hemming and hawing—and the picking up and jostling around of an expensive glass of bourbon on just a few the rocks.  And wafting.  Lots of wafting (ever noticed how this makes you look more philosophical?)

Every time someone asks me this type of question I get that sinking feeling in my stomach like the one I get when I’m at a conference and all of the sudden I realize we’re about to be asked to play an icebreaker…with strangers.  Or worse, when I’m at a baby or bridal shower and it’s all chips and dips and BAM!  A game.  No, I do not want to guess what kind of candy bar has been melted in that pamper.  And I particularly have no interest in wrapping myself in toilet paper to design a “wedding gown”.  Sorry.

But when someone asks you to verbally describe yourself in front of others, you freeze.  All the things you know about yourself and have spent so many years learning (and so many sessions in therapy verbalizing) go out the window and you stand with your mouth ajar and make the noises of a teenager in a pop quiz in History class, ”uhh…umm...like, whatever.” 

Of course if we had had an entire week to do this assignment—we’d be in a different blog.  We’d all write the things we really think about ourselves, edit it down with a critical eye, read it out loud to someone who wouldn’t judge us for our outright self-righteousness before removing the lines that make us sound like utter assholes, and submit a short, well-written succinct piece on who we are—and we’d all look like great people.  And let’s be honest, despite our best efforts, we can’t all be great people.  Things like genetics and shitty situations happen.  Turns out, shitheads, unfortunately, are unavoidable.  Biology is a bitch.

So needless to say, I struggled with this one.  I looked around the room as the teachers in the room did what teachers do best.  They make lists.  Beautifully written, short, well-organized lists that described their qualities.  Quickly and quietly.  Over here in “experiential learning land”, I’m all over the place, doodling in circles and trying to make my list happen (and wishing I had crayons).  I’m over-interpreting the prompt and taking my questions to a deep place that I’m not sure our professor really asked for.  I just took it there; because this is what happens in my brain.  Sometimes I just want the goddamned list to happen.  Maybe I’m cursed with an artist's brain (but no real artistic talent).  Lists turn into doodles which turn into ideas that I think will make great tattoos, or the start of something that will be a great story.

I sketch a scaffold in the corner of the paper while thinking—I’m….uhhh…I’m funny?  And I’m….uhhh….someone….people like? Hell.  I don’t know. 

I let the doodling brain take over.  As the concentric circles spin wildly out of control, I think to myself, “Well, for as long as I can remember my nickname has been mama.  This probably says something about me.  So I’m maternal.  And I’m like a frickin’ fifty year old trapped in the body of a 27 year old.  So I’ve got an old soul.”   30 seconds left…

“Uhh.  I’m funny?”

So, buzzer dings (hypothetical...no one actually uses a buzzer in grad school).  I’ve got: Mama, Old Soul, and Funny.   I’m good enough.  I’m smart enough.  And doggonit, people like me (thanks, Stuart Smalley).  Gee.  I sound like a real crowd-pleaser.   With a notebook full of twirls.  And a hearty dose of SNL quotes.

But didn’t my $150K education give me some depth?  And haven’t I learned something with all those trips around the globe?  And haven’t all those kids I’ve worked with for the last decade taught me something about myself and the world?

Surely I’ve got more than “old soul mama with swirly notebook and sense of humor.”

The thing about quantifying who we are means that we must also qualify who we are.  And we carry so much judgment in our labels—in our –isms and our sexuality and our hobbies.  Being gay or straight looks like something, as does being a parent, or being a laborer, or being an athlete.  We have images in our heads of who these people look like—white collar, blue collar, immigrant.  We’ve already put faces on names.  And sometimes who we really are isn’t someone who we’re willing to say out loud.   And even when we’re willing—sometimes it isn’t safe.

What if who I am makes you think less of me?  What if being honest with myself makes me less likable—less successful?  These are questions people struggle with everyday, on a thousand different levels, over a thousand different variables.

In one of the many houses I’ve called home since living here in Baltimore, I found myself living next door to someone who was a registered sex offender.  I was immensely creeped out by him and found him to fit every single stereotype I’d ever had in my head about what sex offenders look like.  At some point in our neighbor-ship, however, I began to realize how sad he was.  How he was forced to wear a wicked label.  Everyone from the mailman to anyone with the internet could know his story—his dark, sordid past.  A life I’m sure he never asked for.  A sickness no one wakes up wanting.  And while I struggled with legitimately feeling bad for him, I carried a sadness for him that I couldn’t quite name. 

Because these words we use to describe ourselves can be powerful.  And the way others interpret these words can be equally powerful.  So my list didn’t happen. 

I couldn’t think of words that described what I did for a living without somehow taking away from the stories of the people I work with.   I couldn’t think of words that described my friends and family without somehow stripping away what makes them so amazing—so unique.  So beautiful.  I couldn’t think of words to describe the way I feel when I first wake up in the morning or when I hold the hand of someone I love or when I feel rain on my face or the way it smells when I kiss my baby niece on the sweet folds of skin on her legs.  I couldn’t find words to describe the way West Africa has transformed me and how I still find the hair on my arm stands straight up when I hear really good bluegrass music.  The way the arch in my back gets tingly when I’m in love and my palms get slippery when I’m nervous.  The way some boys still give me butterflies in my stomach, and how I secretly hope they always will.

The way I worry myself to sleep at night over things like words I wished I hadn’t used or situations I wished hadn’t happened.  How sometimes I care too much even when I pretend to not care at all.  How I still make bad choices, despite all my access to good ones.  How I feel guilty when I don’t walk the dog and how I sometimes stay out at lunch for too long, and I’m consistently late to work (even though I’m consistently there for 2 more hours at the end of the day).  How I get upset when someone thinks I’m someone I’m not—and how I get even more upset that I’ve let it upset me. 

It feels like there are too many things to try and fit in a list.  Too many years of experiences and stories and people to cram into a 30 second list of “who I am”.  I have scars alone that could take days to explain.

So my list, “old soul mama with swirly notebook and sense of humor”, maybe isn’t so far off after all.  I can fit a lot of me in those words.  And I think it's the start of something that will be a great story.