Identity

‘Identity’. The word is written in the middle of the board, in Mr. De Munck's messy handwriting. I can barely read it from the back row.

‘Everyone should be able to be themselves!’ shouts Amira without raising her hand.

You have to know who you are first, I think.

‘When is someone not themselves?’ asks Mr. De Munck.

‘My niece, sorry, my nephew, was born a girl,’ says Amira immediately. ‘He is twenty-three now. His transition is almost complete, but my uncle and aunt still act like it's a phase.’

I wonder if her nephew likes that she just tells this here. Mr. De Munck doesn't seem to wonder about that. ‘Brave of you to share this,’ he says and he rubs his hand through his medium-length brown hair, as he often does.

The class murmurs in agreement. It always goes like this. Amira saying something loudly. Mr. De Munck complimenting her. The rest remaining silent. Now Elias has to add to it.

‘Anyone who still makes a fuss about that is living a hundred years ago,’ Elias does not disappoint. Grinning, he zips up his rainbow-colored pencil case. Elise turns around and looks at him lovingly. Also typical.

‘What you are saying indeed touches on an important core value of non-confessional ethics,’ Mr. De Munck takes over again. ‘We believe that meaning starts from…’ But the class is no longer listening.

Is it really that simple, just being yourself? What if you are a murderer? Can you also say: mom, I am a murderer, so please don't make a fuss if I bring some corpses home later?

And if it's really just about being yourself, why does everyone want to be Elias' friend while I eat my sandwiches alone again later? I am just who I am too, right, no more or less than anyone else?

‘Some people just don't want to understand,’ shouts Amira as if she can read my thoughts. Her gaze slides through the classroom. Of course, it remains quiet.

I bite my nails again. My father would disapprove of that. He would also have something to say about this discussion. That there are boundaries, for example. That men are men and women are women. ‘It literally hangs between your legs,’ I once heard him say, to the great amusement of his friends. Or that story about that woman who got angry because she wasn't allowed to take her son, who identified as a cat, to the vet.

‘Nathan?’

The whole class is looking at me now.

‘Nathan,’ repeats Mr. De Munck. ‘I asked you a question. What comes to mind when you think of identity?’

Mr. De Munck rubs his hair again. A frown appears on his face. He looks at me expectantly for a moment longer, but then he turns away.

‘Maybe someone else first?’