Identity is circumstance transfigured by choice.
Dean wants this. Dean wants that. But what do I want? What do I need? What am I as Dean? Who is Dean as I? Who am I to tell you? Who are you to ask? What does it really matter anyway?
I’m Dean, but when did that happen? Was I always Dean? Will I always be Dean? I’m Dean, but what does that mean—to me, to you, to anyone? When you see me, do you see me, Dean, both, or neither?
There’s a box labeled Dean, and I’m alone in it. Perhaps there are other boxes labeled Dean, with other people named Dean or people pretending to be Dean. But this is me in my box—the box I was born with, the box I’ll likely die with.
We do not choose our circumstances in life. We are born into them and must make our way forward as best we can. This realization is an inarguable fact—neither optimistic nor pessimistic—one of both confinement and liberation. Which one it becomes is a question of choice, a riddle we alone must solve.
Dean’s riddles are unique to this Dean and no other. Dean’s solutions will not solve the problems for all Deans, or pretend Deans, or non-Deans. I see this as congruent, though a bit vexing. Most see it as contradictory. Perhaps that’s unavoidable. I do not know. I can only speak for this particular Dean, or whatever name I’ve been assigned, whatever circumstances fate has dealt.
All I know is this: despite society’s labels and the judgments of others, the world cannot tell you who you are. That privilege, dear reader, is yours and yours alone.
So this writing project is dedicated to all the dear children of circumstance—you and me, Deans and non-Deans. Those who have found themselves despite life’s twists and turns, and those who are still searching.
May you find your way.
The river does not learn its name from the map.
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