Identity

When someone asks, who are you, do you answer by giving your name, your marital status, your job title, or your rank in family relationship? Do you say who you are by describing your personality traits?

From birth, we are told by caretakers, school personnel, and society how to act, how to feel, what to do and not do, what to say and not say. We are molded into a form of being whatever we accept about ourselves from outside influences. These influences have a negative or positive effect on who we are and we act accordingly.

When a baby is born, official identity begins with documentation created by the government. The birth certificate serves as a foundational record, carrying a unique birth record number and key details such as name, date, and place of birth. Shortly after birth, most children are assigned a Social Security Number. This is used to track earnings, taxes, and access to government services throughout life. These identifiers together establish a person’s legal existence and provide a framework for recognition within society.

These details are important, but we are more than the documents that get filed away! True identity cannot be reduced to numbers on a page or documents in a file. Identity is living, breathing, and evolving. It is shaped by the families and communities we come from, the values we adopt, and the strength we discover within ourselves. It is rewritten every time we overcome an obstacle, every time we refuse to be silenced, and every time we claim our power in spaces where it was once denied.

I didn’t know who I truly was by name until it was time for me to enter first grade. The school needed the usual things — birth certificate, shot records, proof that I existed in the eyes of the world. My mother handed the staff my birth certificate. When asked my name, she said, “Bobby Jean,” one word.

My mother was a fast talker, and I can only assume that when I was born, her words were misheard. That small slip of sound found its way onto my official birth record, and for six years, I lived under a name that wasn’t quite mine. My mother had to officially change my name. With the simple stroke of a pen, I was no longer Bobby Jean — I became Barbara Jean. It’s strange how identity can shift in an instant; how something as significant as a name can carry the weight of who we are meant to be.

I didn’t feel any different. I was still the same girl who loved to ride her bike, with the same parents, the same sisters, the same house — everything unchanged. I was still me, the only me I knew how to be.