In ninth grade English, the essential question our literature selections were based on was: “Who am I, and how do I know?” Partially as a joke the other afternoon, and partially as a serious curiosity question, my friend asked me: “Who are you, Mandi, and how do you know?” It was one of the most thoughtful questions I’ve ever been asked. And it left me wondering:
Does anyone ever really know? I could sit here and provide the most detailed evidence supporting how I know who I truly am, where I’m going in life, and other big questions like that. Or I could be blatantly honest and just tell you, I haven’t the slightest clue.
What defines someone? Their actions? Their past? I like to think it’s what makes someone happy. In an extreme example: if someone is sadistic (seeking pleasure in others’ pain) then there’s irony between the way they find happiness, and the way they affect others through their actions.
Identity is a funny thing. Being in high school, “I’m trying to find myself” is the theme song. But, just maybe, it’s a human theme. Based on the insecurities that run through the veins of our environment, we’re affected by them whether we’re age 16, or 60.
Show me, where’s the irony in that?