Who Am I?

By Tyler Dempsey

Like anyone nearing forty, mirrors are my enemy. So, when I unfortunately saw myself the other day, I immediately ran to my wife.

“Who am I?”

I asked, busting into her office.
She said, “I’m working,” and slammed the door in my face.

I asked again an hour later. Then five or six more times that day. Till finally, she suggested maybe—for the first time in my life—I should try therapy.

Researching online and in-person options, weighing price points, I decided I’d go a step further. I closed the tabs. All, but one. Taking a deep breath, knowing how proud my wife would be, I pulled the trigger.

I ordered a DNA test.

.

We hear “Impostor Syndrome,” but the term having not existed until 1978, it makes you wonder why it’s so prevalent?

Coined by psychologists Pauline Rose Clance and Suzanne Imes, Imposter Syndrome means behind every high-functioning person’s façade of success and achievements, lives a reverse doubting Thomas. Where, despite evidence, a loop track plays in their heads.

A voice whispering,

“You’re not enough.”

.

I was five before I met my dad.

My mom handed me a photo. On it, was what could’ve been any pot-bellied redneck from Oklahoma drinking beer in a lawn chair.

“That’s your dad,” she said.

I stared at the picture.

I knew my stepdad wasn’t my real dad. But, looking at the picture, I felt less about the person in it than I did about Kurt Russell in “Big Trouble in Little China.” Another picture I looked at. Almost every day.

Understand, my mom wasn’t being sentimental. The pot-bellied man had called her demanding, “I want Tyler in my life.” She was simply trying to believe, despite evidence, that people could change.

***

I clicked “Your DNA Results.” A globe spread before me, different regions filling with color.

Literally every family in Oklahoma, mine no exception, has a story of some great grandparent being full-blood Native American. I quickly scanned the country, salivating wildly at the thought of finally placing a name—Creek, Cherokee, Chickasaw—to why my family tans so dark every summer.

I felt the sting of familial lies when the whole country stared colorlessly back. Why would they make that up? Some lame attempt to dodge claims of racism? Something they really wanted to believe, and in the pre-sleuthing years before 23andMe, simply got away with?

At what point in a story’s life does it become heritage? Why was I dumb enough to believe it?

My mouse picked over the colored patches of England and Scotland like a child’s fork over a plate of broccoli. Bleh. How White. How boring. Then my eyes settled on the enormous region to the northeast. Norway! Nine percent! That’s higher than sales tax in certain states!

This explains my deep love for the outdoors and seafaring raids. Even more than a therapist could, my DNA test just unlocked the whys behind so many of my habits and innate proclivities.

And for only $99, plus tax.

I yelled at my wife through the wall, “I’m starting Old Norse on Duolingo.” I couldn’t make out the tone, but she yelled back, “Oh, great!”

***

Their study highlights two scenarios leading to Imposter Syndrome.

The first, growing up with a sibling dubbed “The Intelligent One,” while the imposter themselves got labelled “Sensitive.” Struggling internally to disprove or succumb to this label often creating a stutter-step, a doubt, toward all their actions moving forward.

The second is a period of a couple decades where the person is seen as “good at everything.” Of not needing to try to succeed. The Star Quarterback/Student/Cheerleader, etc. Immediately following this period, life’s crippling limitations hit them like a freight train. Sometime in their twenties or thirties.

If real, Imposter Syndrome would have a field day in MFA programs.