[Verse 1]
Table nine at my cousin's wedding, stranger leans in close,
asks the question like she's buttering toast,
"So what do you do," not "who do you be,"
and my mouth loads the answer before it's asked of me.
Laminate badge, title bigger than the name on the edge,
three years climbing the same gray ledge,
I say it like my whole address, not a job at all,
like the company logo's tattooed on the drywall.
Fork goes quiet, she nods, moves on to the bread,
something in my chest just sat there instead,
like I handed her a business card for a soul,
no zip code, no hobbies, just the quarterly goal.
Drive home, radio low, streetlights count the miles,
I can't remember the last thing I did just for the smile of it.
[Chorus]
Who am I when the badge slides off the string,
when nobody's clocking what the title's worth bringing,
is there a name for the one who clocks out,
somebody softer than the résumé shout.
[Verse 2]
So Tuesday night I try something small and dumb,
open a notebook, not for work, just for fun,
type in "the history of the street I grew up on,"
and something builds me a little album, song by song,
eight tracks on cobblestone, the corner store that closed,
I'm humming facts about my own front door.
Then I start one on Arabic, just the greetings, just the sound,
and a playlist called Songs I Like, no logo lying around,
that one's not my title, that one's not my role,
that's the porch light leading to the rest of the whole house.
Didn't quit the job, just widened the one small room,
gave the off-hours a name instead of letting it consume.
[Bridge]
Still, somebody asks me cold, I still say the company first,
old habit's quicker than the truth I'm trying to nurse,
don't have the new answer smooth and rehearsed yet,
just a second question now, right after the first,
and some nights that second question's the only thing I earn.
[Verse 3]
My sister calls me from the porch of the old house,
says I sound different, lighter, like I let something out,
I tell her about the cobblestone, the Arabic greeting,
and she laughs, says that's the brother she's been needing,
not the one reciting quarterly numbers like a prayer,
but the one who notices the way light moves through the air.
She says, "That's who you were before the badge had a name,"
and something in me cracks open, quiet, not from shame,
just relief, like a window finally let the weather in,
like I'm allowed to be a person and still clock in,
the two don't cancel out, don't have to compete,
just a wider hallway where both versions get to meet.
[Chorus]
Who am I when the badge slides off the string,
when nobody's clocking what the title's worth bringing,
is there a name for the one who clocks out,
somebody softer than the résumé shout.
[Chorus]
Who am I when the badge slides off the string,
when nobody's clocking what the title's worth bringing,
is there a name for the one who clocks out,
somebody softer than the résumé shout.