Still In Love With Hayley Mills

Who am I? Many of us, if we ever ask that question, answer by listing nouns that reflect our daily occupations - mother, wife, fireman, knitter. Depending on what we think of ourselves, we might even throw in some adjectives like 'damn good' or 'awesome'. That's how we describe ourselves externally, but who do we really tell ourselves we are? I recently realized that I rarely think about who I am (why would I? I'm me, right?) and most of the time I only even ponder it when I have been accused of something or had something attributed to me that elicits the internal response, "That's not me! I'm not like that!"

I mention all this because it's seems to be at the nexus of things I've been going through lately with family dynamics. I hear myself more and more telling myself and others in my family that they don't really know me. My dad doesn't know anything about my work, let alone how good I am at it. My sister thinks I'm still five years old. And at home YHWH and Co. think I'm admirable, honorable, diligent, efficient, but also gruff and disapproving - rather like Mount Rushmore. To which I proclaim, "That's not me! You guys just don't know me!"

Last week I was reminiscing with The Cheerleader who I knew from Cult School days and I said I needed her to come over for dinner and tell the family what I was like; in other words, the real me. She said, "Are you sure? You were the guy all us girls' dads warned them about. All the guys wanted to be you and all the girls wanted to be with you." Drew and other people who knew me back when talk about how hilarious I am. And smart; always smart. But that's not the husband and father that lives in my house.

One of the more interesting things about my recent posts about my dad and his family is the fact that I even know those stories. He isn't the most talkative guy in the world after all. For some reason - likely the reason that made me a historian - I was constantly asking my parents what things were like when they were young, what were their interests, who were their friends, who did they date and what did they do, etc. I got a pretty clear picture of their lives and times after a while. Now, here's the funny thing, for me, the Paul Newmanesque, street-racing, two-fisted guy who grew up unloved in the Fifties is my dad. Everything after that - the salesman, the preacher, the hotelier - was done by that guy. It made him a far more convincing evangelist to know that he used to be a hell of a guy.

Since we hear all the time that our personalities are set at age two and by eighteen we have, most of us, come to a realization of 'who we are', then isn't that my dad? And isn't the funny, sentimental, risktaker who I am? And yes, before you say it, also arrogant, know-it-all, and opinionated. And if so, then why doesn't anyone around me know this? YHWH says that's who I used to be, that it's at best unrealistic to think that's still my identity; people change. I see her point, but I still feel like I may do different things, but it's still the old me doing it.

If you've stuck with this post, don't think I moaning, "Woe is me. Nobody knows me." I'm just intrigued by the nature of our identities, be they fluid or immutable. I'm sure I would be horrified to know what people really thought; they may have the opposite reaction I have, "That's not you! You have no idea who you are!" I was in that place a decade ago when my Old Wife left and never really gave me a reason why. Just before that our close friends started breaking dates and disinviting us and I was just clueless as to what I was doing that was so dastardly. Still don't know. By the way, thanks, Tex, for sticking with me. You, too, Queen, even though you were busy and neutral. And thanks for trying as long as you did, Gouldie.

So, like a tiger chasing it's tail, I go round and round trying to figure out who I am. It's just as well because if I ever figure this out, I'll have to move on to 'why am I here'. For now, I find solace in Popeye's mantra: "I yam what I yam."