Who Are You, Anyway?

I always think I'm forgettable. I think people I meet when I'm out and about will not know my name the next time we meet. Is this because I have such a difficult time keeping names and faces together? (And, yes, it has gotten harder as I've gotten older.) Or is it a lack of self-esteem or self-confidence?

I went to a small parochial high school—only 100 students in the graduating class—where everyone knew everyone else, and their entire families. We still are in touch 40+ years later. My identity in high school was Musician. People knew me primarily as the pianist. The girl who played for everything.

Then, over the course of 20 years, I attended seven colleges. Only people from University of Central Florida still remember me—as a pianist or as a member of the first sorority on the fledgling campus.

Then I married and I was Terry's wife or Scott and Tyler's mother. I didn't have a big social circle. Terry worked in his family business or at Walt Disney World or at a couple of small churches. No one really knew me. When we moved to Ft. Worth for him to attend grad school, I hung in his periphery. Now, almost 30 years after that divorce, I have no friends from the ten years we were together.

In the years in Washington, I again felt known as an extension of my spouse: Dick's wife; Bob's wife; J.R.'s wife. I started making friends when I volunteered to manage the data for a chorus benefit auction. In that capacity, using my brain and attention to detail and boundless energy, I came into my own. People knew me as the person who enabled the auction chairs to forget about the data and focus on other matters. Over twenty-five years have passed since my first auction, and people in Washington still know me for that function—recognize me, and throw their arms around me, when they see me at yet another auction.

In Tucson I came into my own. My fiancé emotionally abandoned me shortly after we arrived in Tucson, so I was forced to fend for myself. I joined my sorority alum club, began taking arts and crafts classes, and was one of the first singers chosen for the Tucson Symphony Orchestra Chorus. I wasn't an extension of anyone. There was no "the" or comma after my name. I felt grown-up and confident.

Then my son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren left to come back to Youngstown, and my heart was pulled to follow. I knew only their friends, and again became Tyler's mother, Jaci's mother-in-law, and B&R's grandmother. Two years later, I met a wonderful man, and now I go places and see friends of his and realize I'm the Jazzman's girlfriend. (I'll tell you truthfully that I am loving that sobriquet!)

In my Cleveland chorus, as in Tucson, I have begun making my own friends. We know each other as fellow members of one of the top symphonic choruses in the United States. We know how hard entry into this chorus was, and treat each other with the utmost respect of accomplished musicians.

Is it a deficiency within us to feel our identities are primarily defined by those we help and serve and love? Or is it the mark of a well-rounded, full life? I provide care for (and love) B&R; I help (and love) Tyler and Jaci; I am devoted to (and love) Scott; I adore (yes, and love) the Jazzman; I cherish my new Cleveland chorus friends; I stay connected to my Tucson friends by e-mail and texts and phone.

Am I identified by connection to those I love? Are we all defined by the love we exude?

Who do you think you are?