The year 1989 was a big year for democracy. The Berlin Wall came down and pro-democracy protesters clashed with armed forces in Tiananmen Square. I learned this from the History Channel years later, though. Because in ‘89, I cared about one thing: graduating from high school to get the fuck away from my parents.
The October I turned 17, I sassed my step-dad. That’s what my mom and dad called it--sass. I took it to mean they didn’t want any lip, but I must have given more than one lip that day because suddenly my left cheek burned. And as my head whipped right and forcefully slammed into the front door, I yanked it open and sprinted six houses down the street to my friend Wendy Loom’s house.
The Loom family was the hello-hug type. Warm, kind, safe. When Mr. Loom saw my hand-print cheek, he said I was welcome to stay. Five minutes later, when my dad banged on their front door, the last thing I ever heard Mr. Loom say was, “You’re an asshole, Joe, and I never liked you. Get the hell off my porch before I call the police.”
That day, I was free from my folks, but not emancipated. I became what society calls A Loser.
Every job application reminded me. Did you graduate high school? No. Do you have a GED? No. It took me eleven years before I could skip to the question, Did you graduate college? Yes!
Sometimes I got reminders I didn’t graduate high school like when friends talked about prom or spring break. But over time, it stopped mattering. Until 2014--when I got a new tech job where I felt particularly out of place. By then, imposter syndrome was en vogue in Silicon Valley. Perfectionist, Ms. Harvard? Don’t belong, Mr. MIT? You have Imposterism with a capital I! Take a wellness day, engage in some self-care, and read The Imposture Cure because you DESERVE success. You were born for it.
So when my co-worker, Megan, responded to a self-deprecating comment I made, “That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” I blurted irritatedly: "It’s not Imposter syndrome. I dropped out of high school. I went to a state college. I don’t even know how I passed my technical interview."
Megan simply replied, "We’re both sitting in the same conference room." And that singular fact made me mourn what seventeen-year-old me unknowingly lost that day in October: Dignity.
My entire adult life, I let one decision I made as a near child define how I showed up in the world—as a less-than, a right-hand, a cheerleader for the "successful" people, but never for myself.
Why had I been afraid to even try for more? Because middle-class society has painted an American Horror Story that we keep retelling. It’s a story that tells high school kids if you don’t choose THE path, overachieve all the other overachievers, and get into that Ivy League college, you’ll never be happy. You’ll never have the American dream. And you'll never recover.
But that’s a lie.
We all have issues, problems, troubles. There’s no right answer for life's complications, just decisions. The decision itself even doesn't matter so much. Only that you make a decision and go--and keep on going--matters. Everything else along the way to the next decision is what makes you--you. And being able to be yourself, inspite of the yarns the world spins, is real freedom.