Introductions all around

 I've had a busy couple of weeks. In addition to wrapping up the second and third instalments in The Gene Bukowski Files, which I'm hoping will be a kicker and a thinker respectively, I've also started back at university as a tutor for both Social Work and Community Health. The first classes are now well underway, and my Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are going to be divided up with tutorials.

That got me thinking.

Yes, I know. Thinking is normally a dangerous pastime. The headaches afterwards often leave you wondering whether the whole exercise was worth it. But I digress.

I started thinking about introductions. More specifically, how we introduce ourselves and why.

For many of us, particularly those in the 40 to 60-plus bracket, introducing ourselves can seem relatively straightforward. We bring decades of experience, achievements, failures, lessons, and stories with us. We have careers, families, interests, passions, and identities that have had years, sometimes decades, to develop.

Here in Aotearoa New Zealand, tangata whenua, the Māori people of this land, have long recognised the importance of introduction through the practice of mihimihi. A mihimihi is more than simply stating your name. It is about locating yourself in relation to your whakapapa, your connections, your community, and the places that have shaped who you are. It acknowledges that identity is relational. We are not individuals floating through life in isolation. We belong somewhere, come from somewhere, and are connected to others.

There is something deeply powerful about that.

But what about younger generations?

I found myself asking that question after conducting introduction rounds across my four tutorials. My students were asked to share their name, why they were taking the paper, whether it was part of their degree pathway or simply an area of interest, what they hoped to gain from the tutorials, and what their dreams and aspirations were. To lighten the mood, I also asked them to share their favourite colour.

Simple enough, right?

What surprised me was just how shy many of the students were. Some struggled to answer. Others needed prompting. A few offered only the briefest responses before retreating back into silence.

Although, in hindsight, it probably didn't help that I decided to go first.

When I reached the dreams and aspirations part of my own introduction, I casually mentioned that one of mine was to get up and walk.

The stunned silence that followed was astounding.

You could almost hear the collective gears grinding to a halt.

Eventually, I had to chuckle and break the tension myself.

"Well," I said, "that fell flat."

For those of you who don't know, I use a wheelchair. Yes, I am fully aware that the probability of me suddenly getting up and walking is about as remote as a lion deciding to become a vegetarian. But what's wrong with wanting to get up and go for a walk? It's not as though I said I wanted to run an ultramarathon across the Sahara.

It's still a dream.

It's still an aspiration.

And, as one of the students later pointed out, I'm the one person who gets to decide whether it's possible or not.

Maybe that's part of the challenge when we ask people to talk about their aspirations. We often assume dreams have to be realistic, practical, measurable, and achievable within a clearly defined timeframe. We treat them like goals on a strategic plan rather than things that inspire us, motivate us, or simply capture something we long for.

Perhaps dreams are allowed to be improbable.

After all, if they were guaranteed, they'd probably just be plans.

That experience also made me wonder whether some of my students' reluctance wasn't simply shyness. There are probably several psychological and psychosocial explanations.

For starters, emerging adulthood is a period of identity formation. Many young adults are still figuring out who they are, what they believe, and where they see themselves heading. Questions about future goals and aspirations can feel surprisingly confronting when you're still working out your place in the world.

There's also the reality of social anxiety and fear of judgement. Today's students have grown up in an age where much of their communication happens through screens rather than face-to-face interactions. Standing up in front of a room full of strangers and talking about yourself can feel vulnerable.

Then there's the pressure to have everything figured out. Society often tells young people they should already know what career they want, what success looks like, and where they're heading. Being asked to talk about aspirations in front of peers can sometimes feel less like an invitation and more like a test.

What struck me most, though, was that every student had something worth saying.

Behind the hesitant answers and nervous smiles were stories, experiences, ambitions, and hopes. Every one of them had travelled a unique path into that classroom. Every one of them had something to contribute.

Perhaps that is one of the real purposes of introductions.

Not simply to exchange names, but to create connections.

To acknowledge that every person in the room belongs there.

To begin transforming a room full of strangers into a learning community.

By the end of the tutorials, most students were noticeably more relaxed. Some were chatting with classmates. Others were asking questions. The awkwardness had started to fade.

Maybe introductions are not really about telling people who we are.

Maybe they are about giving ourselves permission to be known.

And perhaps that is why mihimihi remains so significant. It reminds us that identity is not something we perform. It is something we share. Through sharing it, we invite others to do the same.

So I'll leave you with a question. How do you introduce yourself? Do you lead with what you do, where you come from, who your people are, or where you hope to go?

And while you're at it, what's your favourite colour? Mine's blue. After four tutorials, apparently that's the important question.