On identity and delusion
This is not my beautiful house.
Identity is very fragile. It can change, permanently, in an instant. Ask anyone how long it took to become a survivor of something traumatic. It happens instantly, one is forever changed, and the dividing line between before and after the change is clear.
For less drama, think of clothing. As I write this, I am the guy in the blue shirt. In a few seconds, I could be the guy in the orange shirt. Superficial as it is, it is an identity. If someone were looking for me, personally, in this room, I am indeed the guy in the blue shirt. That’s my identity. The description will finger me as precisely as using my DNA. Why? Because I am wearing a blue shirt today, and looking around, I’m the only one in sight.
In a pre-game stunt for the NBA finals, a producer cornered fans gathering early for the game, identified them by the gear they were wearing, and asked them to express their support for their team, be it the Indiana Pacers or the Oklahoma City Thunder. These fans were then offered a wad of cash to don the gear of the opposition and do the same. That was very good television.
In this series, I am rooting for the Pacers, and I was quite entertained by how my own thoughts about these people changed as they donned Oklahoma City Thunder fan gear. Mind you, I am not strongly invested in the NBA or The Pacers. When people wore Pacer gear I wanted to hang out with them , throw back some some shots, and munch some wings while watching the game. When the same human being donned Thunder gear, I wanted to steer clear of them, giving them the leery side-eye and dismissive eye-rolling if I gave them any attention at all.
Think about that the next time you see a MAGA hat.
To be fair, when I don scrubs, hang a stethoscope (which I almost never use) around my neck, and attach a nametag with the letters “RN” prominently displayed, I am wearing the fan kit of my primary professional identity. There is nothing fragile about my commitment to my career or the substance of my skills, insight and experience.
Further, that mostly unused stethoscope around my neck is a cultural talisman. It opens doors for me, literally. It protects me in rough neighborhoods. It lets everyone, particularly children, know that I am someone they can ask for help. As a plus, if I ever need to listen to someone’s heart or lungs, it is within easy reach.
So, if I’m wearing a Pacers kit, that really doesn’t mean much about me. I simply prefer them to the Thunder, which is an NBA franchise I don’t particularly disfavor, they’re just not my preferred victor in this contest. If I’m in scrubs with a stethoscope around my neck, that tells you volumes about who I am, what is important to me, what my life has been like, and how I hope to be remembered after I’m gone.
How can you tell the difference between the meaningful (to me) and the meaningless identity? Unless you know me, you can’t. That’s the fragility of identity. That’s the insubstantiality of the concept.
Yet, politically, everything has been about who’s hat one wears. College Athletics have even given us the artful phrase “name, image and likeness.” Social media calls this, less artfully, “branding.”
Should we cling to these things? Should name, image, and likeness be mercantile?
As with most of life’s vexing questions, the answer is “yes and no.”
I encourage you to look inward at your sense of self. Think about what you would tell someone else about yourself so they can learn who you are. Most likely, the first question that will come up for you is who would I be talking to?
Really? Is you sense of self so malleable that you craft it differently depending on whom you are addressing? Why yes, yes it is.
But, this is the very same thing, this outward identity, which will determine whether you are at risk of being unlawfully detained by masked thugs cosplaying as long enforcement on US streets today. Go down to any Federal courthouse wearing a t-shirt reading “Viva Tren de Aragua! Viva Nino Guerrero!” Pretend, as a thought experiment, that you had to wear it for reasons beyond your control. Who you are won’t matter to ICE Barbie’s storm troopers.
It should. That’s what Habeus Corpus is about. You should have a chance to defend yourself. You won’t. Over a t-shirt. This is where we are today.
I bring all this up to encourage some rumination on identity. I might call myself, as a handy way to shortcut declarations of my political positions on a number of issues, a “Bernie-AOC Liberal.” To many, such an identity is tantamount to a frank admission of mental illness or political incompetence, just a step away from launching Molotov cocktails at driverless taxis. This is just as specious a notion as my idea that I would enjoy hanging out with a guy because he wears a Pacers jersey on TV.
Both specious notions come from identity.
If you were telling me who are, how would that differ from telling a police officer who you are? Which is your identity? Both? Really? I gotta tell you that your driver’s license number really doesn’t mean much to me, and the cop is very unlikely to care that you’ve read “East of Eden.”
I want you to take note that the fascist authoritarians in control in the US government are completely obsessed with identities. This how they got millions of people to vote them into power, just as Hitler did in the 1930s.
People “vibe” with Trump. They like his attitude. His projected and crafted public identity reinforces their vibe. They’re mad, tired of the bullshit, tired of being ignored. His performance is about joining in all of that with them. They all wear the same kit.
Have you ever been at a party, enjoying the vibe, feeling very much in an untouchable place beyond life’s troubles? What happens when a disapproving authority figure suddenly walk in?
The vibe vanishes. Identity becomes delusion.
Think about that. It is literally our hope.