Don’t you know who I am?

Growing up in small-town Louisiana, in a fairly prominent family, everyone knew who I was. I couldn't go anywhere, or do anything, without someone noticing. It made for excellent conditions for paranoia to grow like a weed.

And at the same time, it also completely shrouded who I thought I was, and who I wanted to be. The path ahead was well worn, and there were no turnoffs, or even small tributaries to explore and come back from. One path, one future, one story to tell.

My grandfather's dying words to me, when I was 18 and planning to be a teacher, were: "Become a lawyer, and if you fail at that, you can settle for being a teacher." Of all the wonderful memories I have of PawPaw, that one stands alone, shaming me to this day for not living up.

When I go back to Louisiana for a visit, or to care for my aging father, almost no one recognizes me. I still look unmistakably like everyone in my family, but maybe I carry myself differently in the world. I may not fully know or understand who I am, but I surely know who I am not.

The path has been different from what I was taught, and I walk on it with wonder.

—-

I am…

I am trying to figure out who I am, even after an eight minute exploration.  I mostly resist whatever follows that sentence fragment, especially when the phrase that occurs is "a writer."  But for now, at least, I am satisfied.  And maybe that's enough.