Kilanys Shadey ’28

Conceiving Self-Identity Through the Eyes of an Impostor

“So today’s prompt is going to be a bit unique.”

The look on her face is enthusiastic, and I hear a twinge of inquiry in her voice. I sit, notes app open and in a hurry to gather my thoughts before the prompt.

“Try to categorize yourself: Human, daughter…” The professor’s voice fades out. It’s a fairly simple task—I can do it, can’t I? I take a deep breath as she continues to explain the prompt, looking up at the white lights that resemble those of a hospital room and down onto the mixed-match colored tiles on the floor. Immediately, I’m hit with ideas, words I could wrap myself, in until my fingers hit the keys.

□ Human □ Daughter □ Older Sister

□ American □ Puerto Rican □ Latina?

□ Woman? □ Queer □ Lover

□ Artist □ Musician □ Writer??

□ Blah □ Blah blah blah □ blah blah blah blah??

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah!

Nonsense: That’s all I could come up with as the question marks crowded the ideas I once had about myself. And at that moment, it dawned on me: I don’t really know who I am. Funny, but every time I think I’ve figured it out, doubt creeps in, making me question whether I can truly call myself by a certain term or descriptor. Dramatic, I know, but the reality was hard-hitting. Ten minutes later, my professor asked, “So how did that feel?”

*

As we grow, and look back on our lives. It’s as if we put ourselves in a room filled with colorful murals and stained glass, where light spills onto the floor in vibrant patterns. When you walk around, you see the many artifacts of your identity you’ve collected over the years.

Imagine: the walls are decorated with memories, brushstrokes, and finger paintings of childish dreams—a skateboard sits in the corner, a volleyball rests quietly, a guitar and piano await untouched. All of these items crowd the empty hallways of the museum that lives in your memory. As you wander, revisiting the words that once cradled your mind, silence is shattered by the sight of a small coquí—a tiny frog croaking loudly, its big eyes fixed on you. You reach out, eager to grasp the one thing that resonates with you, but it leaps away, disappearing further into the darkness at the end of the hallway. This darkness, you know, holds your truth and whispers and dangles reality over your nose.

As I made my way back to the reality of my college classroom, I really thought about the prompt. There was only one label I’d ever been able to firmly grasp, so I grasped it then: Puerto Rican. No matter where I was or who I was with, that label felt right—sometimes in pride, sometimes in shame. Being Puerto Rican was all I needed to define who I was, as I would sit under palm trees that whooshed loudly beside my face so loudly that I’d have to go back inside to eat my large bowl of arroz-con-gandules. Growing up in Puerto Rico, I always felt completely at home with my identity, But that  changed  as soon as I moved to the U.S. at age seven; I suddenly felt lost. I tried to fit into a new world while holding onto my Puerto Rican roots, and to not push other kids away. That internal struggle made me question who I was.

In my ESL class, sitting by the large windows overlooking Staten Island, I found myself in a worn-out room with faded walls and creaky desks. Looking out at the unfamiliar streets, I felt isolated, despite being in a class where I should have felt integrated. This stark reality served as a painful reminder of my loneliness in this new place, and quite frankly, it felt like that’s how it would always be, no matter how hard I tried.

I kept trying, even when I felt pushed away from both groups. Even among other Hispanics, I felt out of place—I was caught between two worlds. I was too Hispanic to blend in with Americans yet too American to fully connect with my Hispanic peers—I was never good enough to belong where I should have fit in. This sense of impostor syndrome still complicates my identity, making me doubt my abilities and convincing me that I’m not truly good at anything I pursue or that I don’t belong anywhere. This only adds to the confusion of my personal development and growth, affecting even my passions.

Music has always been significant to my identity as a Hispanic person. Whether through the loud singing that made every hair stand on end as I sat in church as a child, or during serene Sunday mornings, it’s engraved in my life. So, would I consider myself a musician? That’s a different story; it’s a yes and no. I write songs, play instruments, and even put the songs together, but come on—being a musician must be more than just that, right? I’ve always struggled to label myself as one, but I try. And that’s the problem, labels. It’s so complicated being confined.

I’ve never been a fan of talking about myself, not only because of my confusion in trying to figure out who I was and am, but because I always found myself scrambling to pick the perfect label so I could respond to questions with a neat, tidy word. I would do so much just to find a word. I would run miles down a hallway filled with labels, each one shining as if promising to fit me perfectly. When I finally reached the end, I found that the label I wanted was just too small, squeezing my identity and showing me that no single word could capture who I really am. The complexities of identity clicked for me. You grow out of identities you once had and sometimes try to hide the ones you can’t grow out of, but that is part of life.

We grow up: ending back up again in the beautiful museum of collective memories. Staring up and down at walls decorated with memories, brushstrokes, and finger paintings reminiscent of a childish dream, our eyes finally focus. A skateboard that still sits in the corner, a reminder of a thrill you tried just once, recalling sunny adventures and carefree childhood moments. A volleyball resting quietly, symbolizing laughter and teamwork; a guitar and piano waiting silently, echoing dreams you once had. The coquí that once leapt away resting in a glass case, the brightest display. Each item tells a story of who you used to be, but they now feel like distant memories—labels that don’t quite fit anymore or labels you feel too doubtful to uphold. Perhaps if you walk to the darkest corner of the room, you’ll be illuminated with a glimpse of your true self.