Claiming Identity

I've recently had conversations with a friend about our struggles with identity. We have both spent much of our lives living for other people - seeking to fulfill the expectations that others have for us and our lives. Trying to live up to other people's expectations for us has meant that when we fail along those paths we don't handle the rejection well - both experiencing periods of depression that leave us non-functional for stretches of time. It's difficult to be a star peg and try to stuff yourself into a square hole - cutting off pieces of yourself and still not fitting. As I learned more about her struggle, the pain that she's dealt with as she realized that she has no clue who she is, I began to feel a sense of guilt. You see, in my heart, I've known who I am and what my life's calling is for much of my life - I've just often been too afraid to fulfill it.
I still remember that late November day during my junior year. When the intercom announcement was made for all students to start the day in their advisory classroom rather than in 1st Hour. The whole student body was abuzz and tension filled the air. We knew that we were about to get big news, and we figured it wouldn't be good. I tried to brush aside the whispered speculations surrounding me in the hallways. How often was high school gossip actually correct anyway? As soon as the final morning bell had rung, the announcement was made: my high school choir director had died. I was filled with shock and grief but wouldn't allow myself to go down to the media center, where grieving students had been directed to go if needed, because I didn't believe that I'd been close enough in his inner circle to be allowed to join the grieving of students who had been more involved in choir and musical theater productions. After sitting through my Advisory and 1st Hour classes in tears, feeling as though all eyes were on me, it was a relief to enter the choir room.
It certainly wasn't a normal class day. The room was filled with adults part of the district's crisis team who were there attempting to comfort us and failing horribly. It took our student teacher asking if we wanted to sing to start bringing us together. We went through the music that we were working on for our January conference festival, and when we reached the end of those selections, someone asked if we could sing the piece that had been sung the Spring prior for graduation - an arrangement of Wicked's "For Good." The student who had accompanied the piece went into the music library and reemerged shortly thereafter with the music triumphantly in her hand. She sat down at the piano, and the rest of the choir instinctively moved from our assigned spots to gather closer together around the piano as well, and we sang. In that moment, together as a group, we began to heal. I'd always loved music, but I'd never before experienced its healing power. And that is the moment that I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life teaching music.
I don't think anyone took me seriously. Since 8th Grade, I'd declared to anyone that asked that I wanted to be a math teacher. I'd spent part of my sophomore year in high school considering teaching music instead, but I didn't really take it seriously until that moment singing around the piano during my junior year. I didn't know that I wanted to drop the math completely - job security and all - so I figured I'd plan for a double major and dual licensure. As I shared these plans with people, I could swear that people stopped listening after I listed the math half. "A female math teacher," they said. "There aren't enough of those. You'll be so marketable." Others said, "Oh, math, they'll never get rid of that. You'll always have a job." And even those who didn't focus on my great prospects would hone in on the math side of my identity, "Oh, you must be really smart. I'm so bad at math." If people said anything about the music they said, "Oh, well, music is getting cut everywhere these days. At least you'll always have math." More often, though, they ignored the music side altogether. They didn't need to express disapproval; the omission of any response at all was objection enough.
When I got to college, music continued to draw me in, but being a music major left me feeling out of place. I loved my music coursework and activities, but socially I felt like a fish out of water. They had a wider variety of music experiences, a narrower definition of what was "real music," and a vastly greater talent than I did. My math peers, on the other hand, were much more like the friends I'd grown up with; they felt familiar and comfortable. I chose to hold on to my music dreams but immersed myself in the world of the math people. When I chose partway through my college career to take a leap of faith and try to integrate myself within the music group, I had the best semester of my life - until it blew up in my face (because music people can be very fickle). After losing the favor of my music peers, I lost all confidence in my music side. The differing levels of affirmation I received in my two student teaching experiences didn't help. By the time I went searching for my first teaching job I was confident of this: I was passionate about teaching music but not good enough to get hired, and, though teaching math often left me feeling overwhelmed and crabby, I was good enough at it to actually get a job. When my first offer was for a high school math position, I took it.
My first few years of teaching were a roller coaster. That first position landed me in a community and school environment that I loved (and, bonus, put me in the same building as a long-time teaching mentor); yet when I ran errands during my prep, I often found myself lingering by the choir room, listening to the music being made, and longing to be a part of that experience. As that first position was only guaranteed for a year, I found myself searching again and only ever got interviews for math positions. I took what I could get and, though I no longer regret it because of how it indirectly led me to some amazing experiences and people, a part of me knew deep down that it wasn't to be my final fit.
When I finally, in what felt like some crazy luck, landed my first music teaching position, I was ecstatic. It didn't take me long into my first experience as an elementary music teacher to realize that I'd found my calling. I was heartbroken, then, when for reasons beyond my (and my principal's) control, I was forced to leave. I tried to remain positive, applying for as many elementary music positions in my metro area as possible. I even signed up for a graduate level course focused on teaching elementary music where I found more success than I'd ever imagined. But then I faced rejection after rejection following elementary music interviews, and I felt worse and worse. I'd just found my calling, and yet no one wanted me. I began to lose faith in myself. After a fruitless summer of job-hunting, I settled for a middle school music position that at least kept me in the same school district I'd taught in the year before. My parents, who remembered the many years I'd spend hours in my room playing "choir director" were thrilled that I was finally getting the opportunity to fulfill my childhood dream. I didn't have the heart to tell them how much their enthusiasm stung - I had discovered a new dream of teaching elementary music, and it hurt to feel like I had to give it up. I went into another year trying to be the image of perfection in a place that wasn't the fit I needed it to be. As I continually failed to live up to other people's expectations, I felt more and more worthless, more and more hopeless. And though it wasn't where I felt I was meant to be in the long-term, I felt destroyed when my position was cut once again.
I resolved to take a leap of faith and approach this job hunt differently. Rather than applying for every job in the area that my licensure allowed me to teach, I applied almost exclusively for elementary music positions. I'd discovered the joy of working in a job where I fulfilled the vocation that I was created to fill, and I didn't want to go another year trying to make myself fit into a different role. After another long summer of searching, I finally landed an elementary music teacher position.
It's taking a lot of continued faith in God's ability to provide for my life as I teach a 0.41 FTE load (approximately 2/5 time for those of you outside the teaching world), barely qualifying for insurance which eats up a third of my already small paycheck. But I'm the happiest I've ever been in a job, and it seeps into the rest of my life.
I always thought that the hard work of life was supposed to be discovering who you were and what your purpose was. No one ever told me how difficult it can be to step into that role once you've found it. The introspective me has known who I am for years; having the confidence to claim my identity has been a whole different issue. It's taken the daily challenge of having trying to have confidence that I'm good enough to do this job. It's taken a lot of faith that, so long as I'm fulfilling what I'm being called to do, God is going to provide a way for me to do it. But even on the toughest days, it's worth it. In finally claiming this identity, I find joy even when faced with stress. When my colleagues learn that I'm teaching in 3 different schools in a position that still adds up to less than half time and that in all 3 schools I have to teach on a cart (bringing music supplies in to teach in the students' regular classroom rather than them coming to me in a music classroom), they express their deepest sympathies at the difficult conditions that I face; without hesitation, my response is always that it's worth it because I get to teach elementary music, which is exactly where I want to be - where I believe I'm meant to be. It's been a long road to get here, but in claiming the identity of my vocation, I'm the happiest I've ever been. And for that, I will be forever thankful.