I’ve always known who I was. I don’t have any “realization” memory like some others. I was me, that was that. From my mother’s stories about my infancy, it would seem my personality hasn’t changed since even before my first memories. I didn’t cry or fuss or anything, always calm and observant.
I do have an early memory of thinking about myself. Not some private moment looking in a mirror, either. It was in the middle of a kindergarten Thanksgiving play. Each students got to choose to be either an Indian or a Pilgrim, and all the boys picked Indian and all the girls picked Pilgrim. Except me; I was going to go with Indian until I saw that all my friends were, too. I decided to “volunteer” as the sole male Pilgrim (much to the relief of the teachers). Somewhere there’s a great picture of me in my paper buckle-hat, standing confidently in a fake boat surrounded by my harem of Puritan girls.
During the play I looked over at the tribe of boys, crawling and jumping around wearing identical facepaint, and I thought, “So this being myself thing is easy.” Parents and teachers seemed impressed by my bravery for standing out or whatever. That wasn’t even a thing to me. I was merely willing.
(I guess that helps explain a few acting roles later on that drew bewildered praise for me being simply willing to do it.)