My whole life, I’ve struggled with my identity. In a haze of uncertainty and a desire to fit in, I’ve jumped through hoop after hoop to find my value in some trend or group or “calling” that I feel will satisfy my need to belong and feel accepted. Does this sound familiar to you?
When I was about eleven years old, my brother placed a set of headphones on my head and I heard the music of Greenday for the very first time while he laughed at the “techno” music my neighbours listened to, climbed on his skateboard, and shot off. I didn’t know what “techno” was, but I knew who I was. Nick Kenny. The “grungey”. And I needed a skateboard, fast.
When I was 15 years old, my friend loaned me 2pac’s “Greatest Hits” double album. I took this album home, and was blown away by what I heard. This was a whole new world to me. Never one to do things by halves, I dived into this “homie” world and started wearing 2pac t-shirts, Kappa gear, and a bunch of jerseys that were many sizes too big. Through this simple act alone, I lost a bunch of friends, but I found a bunch of new ones. Most of all, I knew who I was. Nick Kenny. The “homie”. This one didn’t last.
Not long after this, I combed my spiky hair back into a slicked-back look, ripping off the old school mafiosi films. I started wearing red, white and green electrical tape on my backwards school hat, and even started signing my name with my father’s biological father’s surname, Cassone. I copped some grief for this, but I knew who I was. Nick Cassone. The “Italian”. This one didn’t last.
A few years after that, I got sick to death of being bored at school, so I started bringing a cask of wine and getting drunk before, during and after class. This was clearly not the brightest move, but it was more interesting than school and it got a lot of laughs from friends in neighbouring schools on the way home. Besides, I knew who I was. Nick Kenny. The “Goonking”. This one lasted a bit too long.
Over the years, I’ve hung my hat on dozens of different identities, every time believing that the new persona I’ve just picked up is finally the “right” one, and above all else, this one truly sums up who I am. Gym rat. Party animal. Radio host. Spiritual dude. Counsellor. Professional speaker. When I enter them, I dive so deeply and wholeheartedly into these new worlds that I often lose my entire sense of self and come out the other side with a head full of knowledge and a bunch of amazing stories, but a soul that is still lacking true depth. It’s even gotten to the point where I lost myself so fully in a relationship to a woman that when it was over, I had so little idea of who I was outside of it that I wanted to take my own life.
Beneath all of these passionate crusades to cloak myself in the next shiny thing is a deep insecurity about my identity, confusion about who the hell I really am, and a paralysing fear that underneath it all, I’m really nothing special. I have clamoured after stuff “out there”, because if I strip away the stories, the experiences, the relationships, the jobs, the subcultures, the wardrobe, the nicknames, the ancestry, once all of it is torn away there is a good chance that I might find all that is left is a frightened little boy. What then?
If that were the case, I would sit with that little boy and read him the words of William Stafford:
“If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died without ever telling the story then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you but you are far away.
He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the great wind comes and the robberies of the rain you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by– you wonder at their calm.
They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, ‘Who are you really, wanderer?’– and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: ‘Maybe I’m a king.’”
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