Since 2010, I’ve read exactly 992 books. If it takes me almost fifteen years to read a thousand, I optimistically have another 4,000 books ahead of me in my lifetime.
The first time someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered, “I want to be happy,” which both is and isn’t what you’d hope a five-year-old to answer. My elementary school peers at the time understood the “actual” question being asked, choosing from age-appropriate aspirations and careers, but for years I would feel like I was misunderstanding the subtext of what everyone else wanted to hear. Like many children, I would begin building my sense of identity not just through these interactions, but through all of the windows and mirrors given to me by teachers, mentors, and librarians.
By puberty, my classmates and I were struggling not just with what we wanted to be, but who. How would I define myself to others? In how many variations would people ask me: “Who are you?”
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A: I want to be: happy, a teacher, a veterinarian, a marine biologist, an author, a zoologist, a translator, a journalist, a writer, a professor, a poet, happy, happy, happy