I grew up in a small town called Wonderlake in Illinois. It was backwoods, with bikers and bible thumpers. It was secluded. In my small Catholic school I had a class of about 20 kids from the area. We had the same families, same religion, same education, and same life. All I knew was what was before me. The limited experiences were all I could draw opinions, views, or personality traits from. This was the foundation of who I am. What traits I have are lessons I learned. I learned about the bible. I learned that if I ask too many questions the adults around me would grow tired. I learned that if I made shadow puppets on the church pews during a sermon, my hands would quickly get swatted down. This was the foundation from which I built my opinions and worldviews.
However these constants were gone as I soon learned of my parent’s divorce. My mother, my sister, and I all moved to our grandfather’s home in Waukesha Wisconsin, and I attended my first day of 5th grade in a new public school, with a class of about 200 kids. I was lost in this new environment. But as I spoke to more people, developed new friends, and spoke with more diverse people, I became myself. I still had the haunting foundations of my Catholic school, but now I was a different person than I would have been. I’ve traveled, explored, learned, and I've developed into me.
Not only did I learn about the world around me, but I learned about myself. When I was a child I was taught nothing but a nuclear family dynamic; a mother, a father, and children. I was taught that men and women were a natural coupling, by obligation I perceived myself this way. The narrow worldview I had known had influenced me as a person. But as I was free to grow and experience new viewpoints, I learned that my identity shouldn’t be dictated by cultural norms. That I shouldn’t feel pressured into loving men. That I shouldn't feel sinful for loving a girl. These conclusions would have been impossible without a new life.
A few years ago I tried to rekindle with my childhood friends. I wanted to know what people they grew into in my absence. As I spent more time with them, there was a melancholic realization I had to face. They were very much the same people I remembered, but I was not. I was a new person. Although they had gotten older, the limitations had kept them in an ether. A disconnect between who I became, and what they had always been. I don’t pity them, but I did feel empathetic.
We had the same foundation, but there was a monument of differences. Their bricks were uniform, tailor made for their foundation. My bricks, the new experiences I’ve had, were different colors and shapes, and sizes. Some were good and strong, helping to build me up. Others were misplaced, resulting in parts to crumble. Two different monuments, two different identities. But we shared a foundation.
It’s short sighted of me to presume that I am a better person for what I’ve experienced. But I am a wiser person. When every brick is tailor made to fit, you never learn to build a stable wall. Every experience good or bad, I’ve learned, grown, expanded. The walls of my monument are inevitably going to crumble, but which ruins are more fascinating? When I die, far off from now, I want more mismatched bricks. I want more experiences to dissolve into my identity. I want to learn and read and observe and taste the new in this world. And when nothing is left of me but the broken stones and bricks that were the monolith of my character, I hope nothing matches.