Identity Crisis

Is it normal for people in their thirties to have identity crises?  I’m not sure if that is what I should call it, and to be honest, this “identity crisis” hit somewhere in my twenties.  Anyway… here’s the deal.  Ever since I was young, I never dreamed I would find myself living in the suburbs. Around the age of five I started believing I would be a missionary to Africa when I grew up and would go around picking up starving children in the desert to nourish back to life.  (Now I also had fond dreams about living in the Wild West like the Wilderness Family or living a romantic, colonial-style life like the Ingalls’ family—as if colonial life was romantic.)  When I hit my early teens, I decided I wanted to live in the inner-city mentoring troubled youth.  When I hit my late teens and was trying to decide what to study in college, I decided I wanted to be a dynamic, urban English school-teacher (think of Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds or Hillary Swank in Freedom Writers).  I wanted to be a mover and a shaker.

Now here I am.  A suburban mom who works part-time as a substitute teacher.  I volunteer in my kids’ classrooms, tutor an adult student through the Literacy Council, and help at a thrift store.  I take walks through the neighboring developments.  I meet with friends for coffee.  I plan play dates for my kids.  I read a lot.  I spend a decent amount of time as a homemaker—cooking, grocery shopping, cleaning, doing laundry.  I go on dates with my husband, have friends and family over for dinner, and spend a lot of time with my faith community, Koinos.  

Sometimes I wonder if I missed my boat.  I’m not a mover and a shaker.  I live an average, middle-class American life.  How did that happen?  Wasn’t I supposed to be living in Africa or in the Bronx and changing the world?  Hence, the identity crisis. 

You know what, though?  Living in the suburbs the last eight years has actually helped break down some of my own stereotypes of suburban people.  For starters, we’re not all white.  Nope.  Actually, in our little neighborhood alone, we have quite a rainbow of ethnicities.  We have families from Africa, India, the Middle East, and Japan.  We’re not all stingy and self-centered either.  Some of my closest friends live in suburbia and are extremely generous with their time, their money, and themselves.  And we certainly don’t all have our lives together.  On the contrary, I’ve learned that suffering and pain come in many forms and escape very few people.  Even those of us lucky enough to have plenty to eat, a nice, safe home, and a good education have needs.

I’ve watched divorce devastate dear friends.  I’ve witnessed depression and self-hatred cause people I care about to cut their arms.  I’ve seen how addiction robs life from those I love.  I’ve seen friends mourn the loss of children.  I know people who have access to health care but still lose their health.  I’ve seen how prejudice, arrogance, and homophobia create walls between good, decent people. 

So as I sift through my identity as a global-minded citizen in a suburban context, I ask myself these questions.  Is it necessary to learn a foreign language or travel to make my mark in the world?  In what ways can I use my “privilege” to be a blessing to others… in my home? in my neighborhood? in Reading? in the world?  What does it mean for me to live a Glo-burban Life?