I'm Mr. Morales

Being a "substitute" for another person is a strange concept. In the cafeteria, the teachers ask, "Who are you today?"

I'm tempted to answer, "Who am I? Well, today I'm myself, like every other day. I'm 25 years old, a young woman, a daughter, girlfriend, friend, sometimes a creative person, on the verge of being a cat lady, and, yes, a substitute teacher. Only, is that really who I am? What is my "self" and what makes me "me"? If you bottled all of me up-- my skin, my eyes, my hopes, my fears, my love of certain books, animals, people, and places-- what would be my scent? And am I simply defined by my likes and dislikes, my body, my feelings, and my experiences? After death, when I'm merely a handful of ashes, will there be anything left, and if there is, what will it be? What is the essence of "me"? Now that I've slid down a rabbithole, each tunnel revealing another question, I'd like to pause and thank you for asking me such an intriguing question."

Instead, I smile and say, "I'm Mr. Morales." Or Chu, or Bachmeier, or Sarkisian, or whoever it is I am for that day.