May 30, 2001

My junior-high school had some ridiculous activities all of which had something to do with self-esteem and identity at exactly the time when I none of either.

One of these soul-wrenching moments was Career Day, while the other was constructing a "Who am I?" packet.

The "Who am I?" packet consisted of worksheets made from those blue ink ditto machines, so old and smeared that you knew you were perhaps the millionth kid to answer these questions. The ink didn't even smell like bubblegum. They asked asinine things such as "_______ is my favorite color. ________ is my favorite book."

What was really sad was that I took the assignment very seriously. I really wanted to know who I was. I spent too much time mulling over parts that I thought was important that I never completed the packet and received a "B".

One girl in my class asked me about a logo I pasted to the front of the packet. I sheepishly told her it was the police box from Doctor Who. When she mentioned that she knew it, my heart leapt. When she didn't ask anymore questions, my heart sank.

During another conversation I wasn't part of, the kids compared sports injuries. How many broken bones, what fractured part, what sprain. I chimed in that I never had a broken bone in my life, and this guy replied, "I don't mean to be offensive, but you're not very active."

It was true, yet I still felt...put down.

During yet another assignment, I wrote down that my favorite movie was Starman. This girl (whom I had a crush on, but now can't remember her name) squealed excitedly, "You like Starman!?" She turned to someone else, and found out it was me. You could have scooped up her disappointment with a spoon.

The final inanity? To write a letter to yourself, to be opened in the year 2000. What would I have been then? Twenty-seven? An eternity. Having no clue what to tell myself, since I had no clue what I had to say, I just wrote, "I hope you have your act together by the time you get this letter."

Perhaps I knew myself rather well, after all.