Running head: MY STORY 1

My Story:

Randy Finds His Cloke

Randall Cloke

Salem State University

MY STORY 2

I’ll start by saying that writing so extensively about myself has never been easy, and

while I’ve had to do it numerous times before now, the reasons why it’s been difficult has been

different each and every time. Whereas it was an issue of comfort when I first had to do

something like this, it’s morphed into something that I’m perfectly fine with discussing and

disseminating; I just don’t know how to organize it all. There’s a lot, I think, and I know that no

matter how many times I’ve written My Story I’ll always forget something formative. And that’s

okay. I’ve made peace with my forgetfulness. I’ve done my best to mitigate it when I can and

accept its many occurrences when I can’t. My example from this week is having my keys—

house, mail, car, office—locked in the Human Resources suite overnight after I forgot them from

a presentation I had done earlier in the day. Many thanks to Jordan for her chauffeur help while I

was car keyless. It’s time to get into this. It’s going to be linear and likely very dry, as my

creativity, if it ever existed, has waned over the years. Your result is this. Enjoy it as much as

you can, if you can.

I was born on January 19th, 1991 in Camden, NJ, a city ranked near or at the top of

annual “America’s Most Dangerous Cities” lists everywhere. I was also born fairly premature to

the tune of twelve weeks. There’s some grainy home footage of me, shot on one of those

shoulder-held, rocket-launcher-looking video cameras from back in the day, and it’s surreal to

see myself in that incubator looking like a real, actual alien as light shines through my body. I

don’t know if I’ve ever asked what the doctors cited as the cause of my prematurity, but I do

know I’ve never been told. I’m no doctor, and while I really don’t like to harbor guesses about

things so considerably outside of my purview, I’d be foolish to discount the possibility that some

substance abuse played a role. We’ll talk more about that later. I had to look some of this up, but

babies born this early do, by and large, live to at least one year of age, but around 20 percent do
MY STORY 3

not. A quarter develop long-lasting disabilities, while nearly half often have behavioral or

learning problems. I’ve had nothing to report on these fronts. I spent a lot of time in the hospital

(a few months?), most of it in the incubator, and I’d say I’m lucky.

Why do I tell you this? Well, it’s interesting in some ways, I suppose. More pointedly,

though, I think it helps me add more context—even if I don’t remember it outside of video and

stories told to me—to a question that I and most people often ask themselves—why am I here?

As I add more to My Story, I’ll delve into this further.

My parents were young, though not too young for this time. I don’t know how old my

father was at my birth, but I doubt it was much different than my 23 year old mom. On video, her

youth surprises me. I don’t see her much now, and it is odd to see her not much younger than I

am now. Her small frame, unwrinkled face, and smile when she’s holding me make her seem

like little more than a stranger to me now. I saw my father infrequently in my childhood, but

after about seven or so, I’ve not seen him.

We moved around a lot. I don’t know if it were by choice or circumstance, but it was a

lot nonetheless. I don’t remember most of the places we lived, but I do remember one from early

in my childhood for a very particular moment that occurred there. I’d later learn that this

apartment building had burned down, but this memory isn’t that; that one I don’t recall. I was

young, maybe four or so, and I woke up in the middle of the night. Curiously, though, no one

was around. My mom wasn’t there. The man who in the future would be both my stepfather and

then former-stepfather wasn’t there. An inquisitive child, I decided I’d find them. Open the

apartment door I did and down the stairs I went. I ventured through front door of the building

and went out into the night. It was cold, though. Quite cold. It was winter and snowing, in fact,

and being a small child I didn’t think to bundle up to go outside. I walked around the building to
MY STORY 4

find them and they weren’t to be found. I ventured up and down the street that the building was

on to no avail. Eventually, I found my way back to the building’s front door. This may surprise

you, but a child that doesn’t think to bring heavy clothes also doesn’t often think to bring keys to

get back inside of locked buildings either. I don’t remember much about what happened after

that, but it’s a lasting memory nonetheless. Moments like this define my early story.

Before I move on into my next little snippet of life, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include my

very first day of kindergarten. I was deathly terrified. I cried the whole time as we lined up

outside in our classes. All I wanted was to go home. And I often was home. I missed a whole lot

of school during my early years of childhood. I’ll never forget being so upset at missing the last

day of the year during the third grade. Instead of having fun one last time, I was in a motel room

eating a cold Lunchable. I don’t know if I’ve had one since, but I do know I’ve never had the

urge to pick one up. My mom and then boyfriend, now ex-husband, had fought about what I

don’t know, so she stormed out with me in tow. This happened more often than I can count.

Home, since I’ve not mentioned it, is Maple Shade, New Jersey, a largely hardworking,

overwhelmingly white, blue collar town in the Philadelphia suburbs. My whole family is not

from there but now lives there. My grandparents, three sets of aunts and uncles, and my seven

cousins. This is a formative location for me, as you might imagine.

A few years later, I remember we had moved to a house, something new and wildly

different from all the one bedroom apartments I had grown accustomed to. I woke up one

weekday morning and realized that I was late for school. My mom, asleep from the long night

prior, was not to be awaken. I had tried to wake her, however, and her hangover being as bad as

it was, she decided that I could get to school on my own just fine from our new-ish house in a
MY STORY 5

part of town I didn’t know. Out the door I was escorted. No bookbag and still in my pajamas.

Ready for school, right?

I tried my best to convince her to open the door back up, but it was no use. Out into the

world I went, not entirely dissimilar from that one winter night a few years prior. I never made

many friends as a kid, and being new to this part of town I didn’t exactly know how to find the

family members or school acquaintances that were nearby. Down the street from my house,

though, there was a former mayor of the town who also happened to be an upholsterer, of all

things. He had been kind to some of the neighborhood kids before, and so I wondered if I might

be able to use his phone to call my grandparents. I walked into his tiny, ranch-style shop and he

saw me instantly. He asked me a series of questions, given the time of the day and my

appearance, and, being a child, I told him. I told him I was just trying to call my grandparents

and he asked me for their phone number. He called them, closed up shop, and drove me over to

the other side of to town to their house. I didn’t go to school that day, and I eventually got

dressed and ate some food, welcome things for a child. My grandparents’ house was a bit of a

second home and it stayed that way, though not for long.

A few years after, at around 11 years old, my mom came to discover that Nick, her

husband and my step-father, had cheated on her. Unlike quibbles over money or other petty

things, this storm out seemed a bit more justified. And, as you might imagine, I went with her.

We eventually found our way, due to lack of money for a cheap motel room, to her friend

Amy’s, all of two blocks from our house. We stayed there for months, in her basement. No, it

wasn’t a nice, finished basement. It had uneven, patchy concrete floors and a particular

dampness that chilled you. I still missed plenty of school, and after a while I was called into the

Guidance Counselor’s office. I won’t mention his name, but Mr. GC, as I’ll refer to him, had a
MY STORY 6

very weak presence. Not particularly adept in his dealing with his main constituency, children,

Mr. GC always rubbed me the wrong way. He asked me questions, and I answered in kind, but I

never particularly enjoyed his matter-of-factness. It never felt like the right demeanor for

assisting middle schoolers.

At one point, one day, in our conversation, he blurts out “You’re homeless. You know

that, right?” Rather taken aback by what I felt was his callousness, I answered, flatly, “Yes, Mr.

GC. You’re really good at your job.” My own budding teenage angst aside, my mom had fallen

further into her own addictive tendencies. Similar to earlier times in my life, not all of which I’ve

included here, she was particularly ill-equipped to be a mostly functioning part of society. I was

spending more and more time at my grandparents’, and it was rather nice to be able to watch TV

(even cable TV!) and eat actual food. I was getting more used to it there.

One early morning in Amy’s basement, I woke up and found my mom slumped over,

unresponsive. With the prescription bottle on the floor in full view, and smart enough of a child

to put two and two together, I ran upstairs to tell Amy what was going on. I don’t think I spent

another night there after that.

I’m pretty certain I spent the entire 6th grade at my grandparents’, and it was weird to

wake up for school every day and eat cereal and do my homework and actually make some

friends. I started to play baseball every day with Sam and other kids from school. My science

teacher, Mrs. Bush, and my social studies teacher, Ms. Stecker, pulled me out of class one day to

let me know that I was going to be in honors classes in junior high the next year. I had no idea

what that meant, but I liked being pulled out of class for something that seemed like a good

thing. It was all very weird. My mom had lived with us for a time, but given everything going
MY STORY 7

on, it was decided that the best thing was for me to stay and for her to not. It remained that way

thereafter.

Junior high and high school was a breeze. I made friends, mostly did well in school, and

was a generally well-adjusted, kind person. My friends were good people and it was surreal to

just have a group of people with whom I could connect so earnestly and so easily. I also got close

to my teachers, equally kind people, who were interested and caring in my success and

development. Eventually college became a possibility, something I’d never once considered, as

my family of blue collar workers had ever gone to college themselves (though my aunt, a nurse,

had gone to nursing school quite a few years prior).

Before my senior year, I was looking mostly in the Philadelphia area and New Jersey

state schools like Rutgers, Rowan, La Salle, Villanova, Drexel, Fairleigh Dickinson, Monmouth,

and, most especially, Saint Joseph’s. I liked Saint Joe’s colors of crimson and grey and the

Philadelphia area location. Raised Catholic-ish, though not seriously, I wasn’t swayed in SJU’s

favor by their Catholicism, though many of the Jesuits’ founding principles when creating Saint

Joseph’s College in 1851 did appeal to me. Cura personalis, care of the whole person, magis,

greater, being a person with and for others, etc., were all things I wanted in an environment to

learn and grow. My first visit with some friends to Saint Joseph’s was all I needed to know that it

was where I wanted to go. I had visited Villanova earlier in the day, and while it was a nice

school, it felt cold and impersonal. A few hours later, while walking around the SJU campus, it

felt alive and inviting. This was the place for me. On a later tour with my aunt, who prior to that

point didn’t understand my intense connection with the school—a few minutes after the

beginning of the admissions presentation—leaned into me and said “This is where you need to

go.”
MY STORY 8

But, alas, cost is a thing. For my eventually lower-middle class upbringing (accounting

that most of my childhood was mired in various level of poverty), college was nearly

unattainable, and a private, Catholic school was simply incomprehensible. I’m reminded of a

news piece talking about the national debt, and how the average person couldn’t comprehend

how much over a certain number meant in realistic terms, so nobody truly understood what 10

trillion dollars meant. For a school that cost 55 thousand dollars a year, I understood that

phenomenon rather well.

Navigating all of the financial aid and admissions forms as an independent student was an

ordeal, to say the least. One of the most stressful in my life. I applied and was accepted to all

schools but Villanova (I should mention here that Saint Joseph’s and Villanova are bitter

basketball rivals, longtime members of Philadelphia’s Big 5, and I despise the Wildcats’ very

existence). And, excitedly, I opened my red envelope containing Saint Joseph’s acceptance on

Christmas eve of my senior year. Still, my family was not in a position to help me with

everything. Buying stuff for my dorm room and helping me with general expenses was one

thing, but affording the actual room and board was another thing entirely. After receiving my

financial aid letter in the early winter, I was offered a lot of money through various means, but it

still wasn’t enough. I was disheartened, but not yet heartbroken.

On SJU’s Accepted Students’ Day, I went to campus to Saint Joseph’s with some of my

high school friends who’d also been accepted. They went with their parents, something that was

not much of an option for me. I had undertaken this journey on my own, so I decided to continue

it that way until the end, too. The sole reason I was going to Saint Joseph’s that day was to have

a one-on-one with a financial aid counselor. I had all my papers organized and was ready to talk

this thing out. I stood in a long line in Campion Student Center, ready to do this thing. Finally
MY STORY 9

reaching the landing to Student Activities offices where the conversations were to take place, I

was greeted by an older woman, very tan, with a somewhat heavy smoker’s voice. We sat down

in a quiet, well-lit space, and she asked me to tell her my story. So I did. We talked about my life

up to that point, and how I knew Saint Joseph’s was the place for me. Most people went into

these conversations standing behind their parents, letting “the adults” haggle and negotiate. That

wasn’t my situation. After a few minutes of talking, Eileen smiled and said that this was the first

time all day she had been able to have a real conversation. Seeing that I was unsure of what that

meant, she followed up with “I think today’s your lucky day.” We’d hash out details later, but

this was going to work. I was going to Saint Joseph’s University, one of the few places I’d ever

call home.

The summer before my freshman year at SJU, things changed. Most of my friends, once

ardent “straight edge” people—those who didn’t smoke, drink, or dabble in other such things—

decided they wanted to. This sudden shift, coupled with my history of people struggling to

contain themselves with substances, left me feeling rather deserted. The first friends I’d ever had

seemed to be gone. As the summer wound down, I was ready to get out of town and start my new

adventure.

It was great. It was so wildly different. New people, new experiences, new opportunities.

I loved it. My roommate was a very odd guy and rarely showered, and I missed half of my 8am

philosophy classes, but I was enjoying it. I was adjusting and doing well. For the longest time I

was living out of boxes and had never really unpacked. As the leaves started to change, a few of

my floormates decided that my settled-ness was going to, too. They whisked into my room and

unpacked all my stuff. I felt mostly accepted, welcome, and enveloped in the experience I

wanted. I made Dean’s List and was being challenged in class. I was making friends. But
MY STORY 10

something was lingering that I hadn’t ever really confronted. It would set me down a dark path

for a long time, one that I was rarely fortunate enough to stray from. I eventually would,

thankfully, but for years I didn’t.

After moving back home for the summer, this nagging thing was hanging around more

and more. I knew it wasn’t simply a temporary thing; it’d been there for a long, long time. I

knew I was gay, but it simply never really was a pertinent thing to me. In high school I was

enjoying having friends for the first time and doing well in school—I’d never experienced it

before. But I knew I was a little different in this way than most people. I always knew. I just

never had the inclination or time to want to think about it more. Leave it to an empty summer in

college for it to hit me so forcefully. It wasn’t that I was floored by being not straight, not having

that white picket fence life—I’d never experienced it and never aspired to that. Rather, I think it

was the first time I’d ever really had the time and the clear-mindedness to take time for a real

introspective look and learn something about myself, instead of going around avoiding fires as I

had throughout of my childhood and as I had mostly grown accustomed to. Being that

vulnerable, even to myself, sent me in a spiral.

The next year in college, I did well in the fall, but I was crumbling. I was sleeping all the

time, not eating, and simply being miserable. I sought professional help, and it was a nice try, but

it wasn’t the right time. I was simply going to struggle through this. I made most of my classes,

did most of my work, and I did okay in my classes for the most part, but my college experience

would be sullied after this. I drew inward, and that probably wasn’t the best choice. I mostly

stopped hanging out with people except for my roommates some nights, and I just did the best I

could. I had some bright moments that made for some good days, but I’m not going to wash over
MY STORY 11

that period of time now that it’s in the past and say that it wasn’t that bad. It was. And that, much

like my omnipresent forgetfulness, is okay.

A few weeks prior to graduation, I sat down with one of my history professors, Dr.

Warren, to get his advice as to how to best approach the coming months in a job search. After

much freaking out about how I didn’t know what I was doing or how to best accomplish

anything, he told me to sit down. He told me, flatly, that I needed to chill out as it was all going

to work out. For a moment, I did relax. Eventually it would all work out, but not for quite a

while. The next phase took far longer than I ever thought it would, no matter how much of my

pessimistic attitude had already made me think it was going to seemingly last forever. I

graduated in May of 2013 with the idea that I could get into higher education, largely fueled by

my exceptionally helpful, guiding professors and staff at Saint Joseph’s.

So that didn’t happen. The recession was still lingering for many young grads, and

getting into an exceptionally competitive field with just an undergraduate degree was proving

fruitful. It just didn’t happen. Hundreds of job applications, some interviews with me landing

near the top of the pile but never at the top, and many heated conversations with family as I

struggled with the job search and the lingering effects of my self-vulnerability, I sank further and

further. I tried my best and it wasn’t working.

But, eventually, after a year of searching, I found and was hired to fill a part-time tutoring

position at a local community college. The pay was insultingly low, even for this particular

institution, but I liked it nonetheless. Connecting with students, being involved in their

academics, and getting to know them as whole persons fueled me every day. It’s the best job I’ve

ever had. After the fall semester, I eventually shifted to only Saturdays as I moved to a full-time

corporate communications position at a local transit company, and within a few months it had
MY STORY 12

become clear that this was not going to work out. I wanted more responsibility and input, and

after a year of slogging through terrible hours, constant mismanagement that made my job more

difficult, and simply not being happy, I left. I went back to the tutoring center where I had

worked the year prior, though I took on more of an administrative role. This wasn’t what I really

wanted, but I still interfaced with students as I could and enjoyed my environment and

responsibilities nonetheless. Constantly aware of the limited professional growth available to me

at this institution and others, I knew it was time to look at graduate schools.

By the time I decided to go back to school, it was pretty unfeasible for me to study and

take the GRE, do well, and apply to schools in time to be considered for the following fall term. I

knew I could not handle the lack of progress for another year, and so I was resolved to choose

among schools that didn’t require the exam.

After applying to a bunch of schools everywhere across the country, and being accepted

at all but one, I eventually narrowed it down to three choices: Seattle University, Canisius

College, and Salem State. Seattle has the cool modern city vibe, and both it and Canisius share

the Jesuit foundation in which I, myself, had been grounded. Salem State, a school I had never

heard of, offered interesting assistantships that other schools didn’t have, and it wasn’t across the

country or in snow-haven Buffalo. I visited Seattle and not long after arriving I could feel it

wasn’t right for me. The West Coast has an entirely different vibe, and it doesn’t mesh

exceptionally well, at this point in my life, with my sometimes gruff Northeastern US,

Philadelphia personality. Canisius, though interesting, just didn’t feel right for me either.

Knowing that those places weren’t the right fit, and realizing that, at worst, Salem State would be

the same way but just closer to home and my aging grandparents. Sight unseen, it was going to

be where I intended to go. Not long after deciding this, my fellowship offer came through from
MY STORY 13

Lee, and it was settled. After finding a far-too-expensive apartment, summer work in Alumni

Affairs, and actually moving, I’m here. And, honestly, it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever

made. I don’t know if my cohort mates are profession-changing geniuses or not—I’m certainly

not—and I don’t know if Salem State’s status in Student Affairs graduate education is at the

pinnacle of the field, but I do know that this is the right place regardless of any questions one

might ever ask me about this particular choice.

I wasn’t always, and if I’m being intellectually honest rarely was, in a good place. I am

now. And it’s an exceptionally weird feeling, too. I should note here that I’ve always thought of

weird being two distinct kinds: weird different and weird bad. This new, odd feeling is, for sure,

weird different. And I like it. I’m the most me that I’ve been in quite a while, and I’m being

more open and vulnerable and doing so comfortably. I’m being challenged academically,

professionally, and socially, and while I’ve always felt that I’ve progressed at a different pace

than most of my peers, I’m doing well for me. I like where I am, who I am, and what I’m doing.

I said at the beginning that I talk about the circumstances of my birth because it has

helped me add a context to the question of “Why am I here?” It’s nothing crazy insightful, but

I’m here because I’m supposed to be. I’ve never once been part of the “It happens for a reason”

brigade and so I’m not going to down that road, but I am alive and here today because I’m

supposed to be. That includes my current physical location, the personality that defines me, and

the worldview that shapes my actions and decisions every day.

I remember sitting down with a former professor of mine, Father Feeney, prior to

applying to graduate school. I had asked him if he’d be so kind to write me letters of

recommendation, and he had asked me if, prior to him doing so, I’d sit down with him and talk

about my goals and aims. We did, and in it I said something like, “Joe, I’m not a going to cure
MY STORY 14

some terrible disease, and I’m not going to bring about world peace. In a room full of people,

I’m not the smartest, I’m not the strongest, and I’m not the cleverest. I do, however, care so very

deeply about others and in the way that I can recount particular moments of the kindness and

embrace of others, I want to be able to provide those moments of help for students in whatever

ways I can.” This belief, coupled with the experiences in my life, have ingrained in me a cause to

do for students what I can in the best way that I can.

I’ve no doubt, just as I said at the beginning of this, that I have failed to include

everything, including plenty of particularly insightful, moving moments. I’m forgetful,

sometimes by choice, though mostly by chance. I think, though, that I’ve started to help give rise

to some aspects of the experiences that have most considerably shaped my development. And

while I expect to continue to draft and revise—both this paper and myself as a person—I’m

ready to continue to look inward with new, learned theory and insights and learn about myself.

When I take the time to reflect on my story, conjuring up an all-encompassing, covers-

everything theory is not something that is easily done. Like most theory, the one I have created

will have some gaps that are simply unavoidable.

While I have often written about and certainly thought about my life, I have not quite

taken as much time to think about the development that it has spurred in me. That is not to say

that I have been completely without some form of reflection—I am far too introspective,

historically, for that to not be the case.

My theory, generally, can be seen primarily in four stages: being, seeing, doing, and

living. The stages can be consecutive for some, but to jump between and among them is

something for which the theory allows, as formative moments often create a scenario where one

is compelled to move to a different stage that is not the one which immediately follows.
MY STORY 15

However, some can experience the theory’s stages linearly, and thus I will cover them in such an

order.

The first stage, being, is a set of circumstances wherein one is seemingly stuck, not able

to move, and the overbearing nature of this stage creates a fog, making it difficult for an

individual to see beyond immediate events. This can be caused by either external forces, internal

forces, or both. Now, to be stuck does not mean to be physically controlled to prevent movement.

Rather, the events around the individual in this stage can create a seeming form of paralysis.

Whether the world around them seems too overwhelming, whether it seems that nothing beyond

their immediate experience exists, or something similar, the individual in this stage is likely to

struggle to make connections with others, think critically about themselves, or feel engaged with

the events which occur in their life.

It is in the being stage where I spent several moments in my life, including most of my

childhood. As a young child, the circumstances of my upbringing—the constant moving around,

the inattentiveness of my parents, the substance abuse I saw, the various forms of tangible

insecurity I faced on a far-too-often basis—left me unable to think of a world outside of my

immediate surroundings. I did not know that friends were something which could be an option

for me. I did not know that school was something in which I could generally do well.

In this stage, one can feel overwhelmed by circumstance, by internal forces, or both. For

me, during my early childhood, it was largely external forces which seemingly kept me within

this stage. I would eventually move out of this stage, which I will cover later, only to move back

into it during my late teens. It was during this stage where I came to terms with my sexuality and

the childhood I had experienced, both of which shuttled me back into the being stage. Whereas it

had been external forces that made me feel stuck in this stage, it was my later foray in being that
MY STORY 16

was largely caused by internal circumstances. Intellectually I knew that there was nothing that

could be changed, nor did I have a desire to, but I could not, nonetheless, help feeling damaged,

broken, and otherwise undeserving. No one was actively making me feel this way. Instead, I was

unable to parse through my various experiences and identities to fit them together to accept them

and focus on more pressing matters. As such, in this instance of being, I was unable to move past

or make sense of what were immediate internal events which would lead me to see beyond the

foggy haze they had created. And, due to this, I did poorly in school, let social connections

whither, and simply stopped developing in that stage. I would, thankfully, move out of it as I

have described prior, but it nonetheless is a prime example of the being stage.

The second stage, seeing, is an evolution of the being stage. While the events and

circumstances an individual in the seeing stage find themselves in may not deviate greatly from

the being stage, the “fog” lessens and clarity increases. While their actions—or inactions—may

not change in this stage, their ability to see, learn, and discern exist. The individual’s sense of

self becomes apparent, though not fully realized whatsoever. Their ability to connect with others

increases, though unchanging circumstances can lead to varying degrees of successful

connection. The seeing stage is one where the individual is more fully able to see the world

beyond the immediacy of their current existence, and the possibility for something to exist in that

world that is better—or at least different—is a marked departure from the being stage.

For me, later as a pre-teen is represented in this stage. Mostly my time prior to being

removed from my mother’s care and into my grandparents’ home is that which I see as fitting

most neatly into the seeing stage. During this period, I gained clarity that I had not previously

had. I was more capable of developing critical thought, more aware of who I was and that I

actually existed in a larger world that was more than poor living circumstances, lack of food or
MY STORY 17

structure, or commitment to or recognition of the importance of education. I could better place

my experience—as unpleasant as it was—more fully into a continuum of existence that I was not

able to see before. Seeing is a simple name for a stage, but it truly represents what is at the heart

of the experience of an individual enveloped within it.

The next stage, doing, is markedly different than the two stages discussed prior. While

both being and seeing are centered around being stuck, unable to move, unable to see, and

otherwise being unable to think critically, doing is shed of many of those shackles. Doing

combines the newly found sense of clarity that is emblematic of the seeing stage, and adds an

element that had not existed in either prior stage: a sense of freedom or ability. In doing, an

individual is capable of and tries to, well, do things. A person can try new things, learn new

things, and experience new things. While circumstances may remain largely in place, the

external or internal forces which helped to keep the individual from acting are mostly eliminated,

creating a space for expression, experience, and evolution. Their sense of self, being evident in

seeing, is more developed, though not entirely or mostly. While the revelation of the existence of

self is a large aspect of the seeing stage, it is the greater embrace of the existence of self which is

most prominent in the doing stage. One’s ability to connect with others increases, and their

capacity to place themselves, others, their experience, and their possibilities into a greater

context is heightened.

For me, it is the time after I began living with my grandparent’s where I find the aspects

of the doing stage to be most clear. I was mostly shed of the external and internal forces that are

significant in the prior stages, and my sense of self only increased as time went on and I

transitioned from seeing to doing. I was starting to connect with others—make friends—and the

development of my personality increased. The circumstances of my life changed, leading to a

MY STORY 18

greater perspective and increased clarity. I saw that I could be successful academically and that I

could be a person with others, not apart from them. I saw, for the first time, possibilities that

could lie ahead for me—not what they were, necessarily, but that they even existed. Though my

identities and experiences were hardly done being considered or developing, I was more

cognizant of their existence, and that alone was a great departure from prior stages.

The final stage in this initial theory is living. Living combines the increased clarity and

greater freedom of action from prior stages and continues them, removing more and more

barriers and leading an individual in this stage to more fully act without the ties to potentially

crippling external and internal forces. Living takes these characteristics and adds to them a

mostly-developed to fully-developed identity or identities and global, interconnected context

which one cannot experience in prior stages. The circumstances in living are most certainly to be

markedly different from earlier stages, and this only helps to further highlight the divide between

them.

For me, the living stage is the one in which I currently find myself. My global context is

greatly developed, though I recognize that it will only continue to grow. So, too, is my sense of

self, as it is considerably different—even in just my recognition of it—from other times or stages

of my life. My identities—a few of many being my whiteness, my gayness, my maleness, my

lover-of-basketballness—are developed to a point where I recognize them, accept them, embrace

them, and can place them in a broader context of who I am, where I fit, and who others are and

where they fit. And where, ultimately, we all fit. I better understand not only myself, but the

world in which I am placed. I not only recognize that this broader world exists, but others who

are in it, who they are, and how they see themselves. I see how we connect, how we do not, and

how we better could. I can connect who I am and how I have developed to the experiences that
MY STORY 19

have shaped me, and how my intrinsic qualities helped me through them and were also

developed by them. Most prominently for me, though, it is my being in this stage that allows me

to finally seek out better understanding others. I have always been cognizant of others’

experiences being different than mine, and I was not ignorant and uncaring regarding learning

them before. Rather, for the first time I feel able to finally turn a lot of my development away

from my past to the development of myself in the context of others.

In the context of the student development theory that we have covered in class, a few

come to mind when one considers the theory outlined above. In particular, one might most

readily contemplate the various aspects of Chickering and Erickson. Though not comparable in

every aspect, the new theory, detailed above in its various stages, does overlap with these two

theories in some ways and depart in others.

Arthur Chickering developed his Theory of Identity Development with a result of seven

individual stages, delineated by typical development in specific ways that would occur through

one’s typical college-aged, undergraduate schooling (Patton, Renn, Guido-DiBrito, & Quaye,

2016, p. 296). This alone is a key difference compared to the theory that I have developed above,

as my theory is not applicable solely to a specific age range; it was developed, in fact, so that

each stage could be applicable to multiple—any—time period(s) of one’s life. Further,

Chickering’s vectors consider only the development that occurs—as each vector is specific to a

particular aspect of development—while mine allows for fluidity for various types and amounts

of development in each stage. More simply, my theory does not determine a specific amount of

development or “goal,” but rather a semi-nebulous progression along a continuum. One person

may develop a certain amount in the doing stage as opposed to another, but the hallmark is both
MY STORY 20

the type of development and the circumstance in which that development occurs, and not simply

a particular milestone.

Now, there is some overlapping between the two theories, too. Though my theory does

not explicitly discuss the idea of autonomy, one of the implicit concepts I had when developing it

was my desire to allow for the promotion of the idea that one typically desires to be autonomous.

What can be opposed to this concept is the ability for one to be autonomous, such as when

internal or external forces allow for it to occur more fully or not. Also, another commonality

between the two theories is one’s development of their identity. One marked difference,

however, is that Chickering confines to this a singular vector (Patton et al., 2016, p. 298), while

my theory allows for this aspect of development to occurring during multiple stages, including

the ability for it to progress and regress as one moves from one stage to the next. Lastly, another

largely overlapping aspect of both Chickering’s vectors and my stages is the attention paid to the

establishment and valuing of relationships which one makes with others (Patton et al., 2016, p.

298). Again, while my theory does not explicitly cover one’s desire for interdependence, it is

something which, personally, I feel that nearly all persons seek to discover and create. There are

many aspects of Chickering’s vectors which both overlap with and diverge from my theory, and

it is not the only theory which does so. For so too does Erickson’s theory of Identity

development.

Erickson’s Theory of Identity Development is one which encompasses a person’s entire

life. He created a theory which has specific stages for specific age ranges when that development

would typically occur in one’s life. This, to start, is one of the glaring differences between my

theory and Erickson’s. While Chickering’s vectors center entirely around early adulthood

development, Erickson’s goes from birth until death (Patton et al., 2016, p. 288). My theory, of
MY STORY 21

course, does not specifically address one period of life nor does it break stages down into age

ranges. I do think, however, that my theory can apply broadly to a person’s entire life. I do not

want to assume that to be the case, but I believe it could be. However, one must recognize that

what I have developed is specific to my experiences, and thus far that is through but 25 years of

what I assume will be a long life.

One of the key differences I can readily see is found in the respective “end” stages of

both my theory and Erickson’s. While my theory is explicitly designed to allow for one to move

between and among the four parts, the living stage is one which sees one accept their past as it is.

Unlike Erickson (Patton et al., 2016, p. 290), however, mine allows for this development to

occur at multiple points in one’s life. For a young adult, they may be in the living stage and

accept their childhood experiences. For an elderly adult, it may be accepting their professional

experiences, their relationship experiences, their raising of their children, etc. The key departure

I see between my theory and Erickson’s is the idea of linear progression, and it does not allow

for particular aspects of development to occur at different points in a person’s life specific to that

period of their life. As I described, I have accepted my childhood experiences as being what they

are. I am not an elderly adult. Erickson’s theory, however, seems to mandate that one cannot

develop this acceptance until much, much later in one’s life, and I do not feel that that is

something which is the case for a typical person (Patton et al., 2016, p. 290).

Now, that is not to say that there are not areas or instances where there are shared ideas in

our theories. The idea of identity development is central to both, though the times and occurrence

of this development does differ. Moreover, the development of relationships with others is an

aspect of development which is largely seen in both theories. Again, like it is with specific

identity development, my theory allows for the creation and cultivation of these relationships to
MY STORY 22

occur at multiple points in life, and not simply in a defined age range as is the case in Erickson’s

theory (Patton et al., 2016, p. 289). While both my theory and Erickson share many common

developmental elements, it is the difference in rigidity between our theories which is the most

striking.

Unlike Chickering or Erickson, I have created a theory that I feel is fluid and allows for

people of all ages and experience to fit. It is not, of course, a one-size-fits-all theory, but I do feel

that despite it being created based on my personal experiences, there is a lack of rigidity which,

though not intentional in this way, allows for it to apply to people of different ages, different

experiences, and different circumstances.

I also know that my theory is incomplete, since my life and my story is incomplete. I

expect that stages could be added, changed, or removed entirely as my life goes on and my

experiences become more numerous and my progressions and regressions—in all the ways in

which one develops—continue.

MY STORY 23

References

Patton, L. D., Renn, K. A., Guido-DiBrito, F., & Quaye, S. J. (2016). Psychosocial identity

development. In Student development in college: Theory, research, and

practice (3rd ed., pp. 288-313). San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, A Wiley Brand.