Maybe Your Job Title is Just a Disguise?

In my early 20s, I worked as a social work intern at a special school for kids with significant behavior challenges in Buffalo, NY.  The students at this school couldn’t move about the building from one place to another without being escorted by a staff member, and a teacher asked me to bring a youngster to the school nurse.  While in the clinic, a high school student walked up a little too close to me and asked, “Who you posta be?”   My quick response was, “Jus Mike.  Chill.”  It was a low ego, no flex response – and simultaneously letting him know I was no threat...we were good.

The greatest who am I clip ever.

And…that was an issue.  For the first time, I was in a school – one in which I was not “Jus Mike” anymore.  In this spot, my call sign had changed to Mr. Baldassarre – and I realized it by the look on the face of the school nurse.  She looked at me like…seriously dude?  “I mean, Mr. Baldassarre,” trying to make a quick adjustment.  The kid looked confused, and I had to explain to this teen, who was just a few years younger than me, that I was in college.  It was settled in that moment that I would be Mr. B.  And later, some of the high schoolers just called me B.  That didn’t bug me a bit – but there was a guy who worked there who didn’t like it. 

Then, over the years, as I gravitated from social work intern to teacher’s assistant…then substitute teacher, and later student teacher, my moniker was actually Mr. Baldassarre. I had a briefcase.  I wore a collared shirt with a tie – until I learned why ties were ill-advised at that school and in certain inner-city neighborhoods.  Not long after, I was back at my old high school, and some students called me coach. Because I was back on the wrestling mat, where at the end of the day I’d trade in my collared shirt brief case for a T-shirt, shorts, and whistle.  

The only song I could think of

Eventually, “Jus Mike. Chill” became Superintendent Baldassarre, or Dr. Baldassarre.  A couple of changes to the wardrobe + consistent upgrades in vocabulary, and abracadabra – a transformation occurred.  Add the most important title to the mix…Dad.   

A three-step concept I learned in one of those social work classes came true.  We ALL do this:

We think about how we look to others – Am I cool, smart, confident, strong, weak???

We think about how they judge us – Am I admired, respected, laughed at, hated???

We develop feelings about ourselves based on others' judgements – Pride, shame, etc…

It’s fascinating to me that a theory developed at the turn of the 19th century, and taught to me at the turn of the 20th could come back into my mind – out of the blue.  Buffalo State College’s Professor Bachman would be happy to know that I’ve finally applied to something other than passing a test.  The bottom line is when someone calls you Mister, Doctor, Coach, Dad…even Hubby, Pumkin, or Honey – it changes the way we judge ourselves.  This is exactly why constant bullying and harassment is so, so bad.  It cuts the spirit of its target like a knife – yet leaving no physical wound.

I have to reiterate for those new to the blog that in January I went from being called Doctor and Superintendent to being called a drunk, even a criminal.  This abrupt change of definition was brought on by my arrest for OUI.  I summarily lost the title of Superintendent of Schools, and what was left?  What was left was a guy who not only lost his identity – but a guy who also carried a thousand pounds of shame.  And I needn’t look in the mirror to see myself, because the same face was plastered on Facebook pages, in newspapers, and in online content that made its way 500 miles east to my family and friends of yesteryear. 

I would have rather been flogged like that kid that Bill Clinton tried to get off the hook when he committed a crime in Singapore.  Now that the title is gone, and the cat is out of the bag on how I handled my stress, all that is left is me.  What was hidden behind a job title, experience, and credentials is gone – forever.  When this happens, we must do our best to embrace the real change. 

He got a lot of attention for his international beating

So now I know what that kid in Buffalo didn’t. Titles come and go. Some are earned, some are gifted, and some—like “drunk” or “criminal”—can be slapped on you in a heartbeat and echo longer than they should.

But who you posta be? That’s the real question.

These days, I’m working on becoming someone who doesn’t need a title to feel worthy. Not Doctor. Not Superintendent. Just someone honest. Someone trying. Someone present.

There’s no more hiding behind a nameplate or a prefix. And while I might be too old to answer with “Jus Mike. Chill,” I’m not too old to mean it.

So I’ll ask you what that teen once asked me…
Who you posta be?
And when the titles fall away…
Are you still you?