Five Caveats to Claiming Self-Identity

ONE. My honky-tonk Jesus can hang on your antiseptic cross.

Being human is not a binary proposition. Whitman said, “We contain multitudes.” Our cultural failing is white-washing complexity in the name of clarity. There’s a black Jesus that lives in Panama. Surely there are others. We can cling to the safety of self-affirming certainty or embrace the mystery of multiplicity. The kaleidoscopic cool of existence.

Buddha can be a fat bald dude who speaks in riddles as well as the poster child for peace. Essence defies definition. The attributes and characteristics of a tree cannot communicate the way it whispers in the wind or dances in the sunlight or holds our shadows in its shade.  Listing off the ingredients of cotton candy– easy. Describing the artistry and joy of spun sugar around a paper tube– impossible. Self-identity cannot be claimed like a lottery ticket or tax exemption.

Language itself is merely a ballpark estimation. Words are wonky. Understanding is predicated on meaning. Wars are fought over the territory of interpretation. Take human rights. Unborn human or mother human. The right to bear arms or protect society. We can choose sides or choose love. Surrender is a bitch. Being right feels better than being true. But the truth is, we are all just trying to translate the human experience. We can armor up or weapon down.

TWO. Fairy godmothers will whack you over the head with their wand.

Sometimes you’ve got till midnight. But carriages turn to pumpkins no matter who you are. No matter how hard you work, wish, bribe, or beg, your confidence will crash. Mine skyrockets early morning, plummets mid-afternoon and flatlines at night. It happens like clockwork. Other people are susceptible to seasons, stock market fluctuations, and social media. Stability is a myth. Self-worth is wobbly. You can’t always prop it up with a few well-placed cocktail napkins. A pitcher of margaritas can ease the anger.  Daffodils diffuse the dismay. Drumming can drive out the demons. But consistency is not part of the human condition.

Value vacillates. We are rock stars one minute. Tyrants the next. Good news and bad arrive without warning. Optimism can disappear with rejection. Kindness with chronic pain. Personal potential cannot be hacked. I’ve tried. The future me that will be more patient, less bloated, relentlessly optimistic, and always up for adventure is populist propaganda. Hogwash. Trust me, if I had a mermaid tail, I’d strap it on and swim away. No one wants to drown in a tidal wave of idealism.

Identity cannot be hardwired like a dishwasher. There’s no clear-cut outlet. No standard two-pronged plug. Is who we are who choose to be? Our circumstantial reality. God’s decree. The struggle that sets us free. Do you live in Manhattan, South Chicago, or Salt Lake City? Because geography impacts strategy. So does ADHD. Sexuality. All of us are trapped and free. Ego is built on irony. We are the refuge we seek and the refugee.

THREE. Boxwoods outperform Botox and country music beats rock.

Choice is subjective. The crossroads of daily decisions are not. Doesn’t matter whether you’re a firefighter or fintech phenom.  Every one-of-a-kind magical snowflake must commit to Froot Loops, egg whites or black coffee for breakfast. Must decide if they’ll be pulled out to sea by hype and hullabaloo or hug the shore of their soul. Fear government or trust love. Fail to measure up or throw away the stick. It’s not a one and done event.

“This being human is a guest house,” Rumi says, “Each morning, a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.” We must navigate them all. No one is exempt. Whether you are L, G, B. T, Q, straight, sideways, or upside-down… whether you are black, white, yellow, or brown, life will throw you into the driver’s seat of a road trip you never planned to take. Then what?

Do you follow someone else’s map or make your own? Which way will take you home? Will worry drive you? Or wonder? When will you stop to rest and where will you lay your head? What will you sacrifice to swallow the moon? In Subarus and Bentleys, Converse, and Christian Louboutin– we renegotiate freedom. Strive for success. Grovel with grace. Surrender to the animal body of our longings.

FOUR. Carnivorous convictions chew up the scenery of curiosity.

We can banter on about labels or drink in dragonflies mating midair. Double-down on self-righteous rants or savor the short-lived lives of peonies. Soon, it will be June. Season of commencement addresses. Thousands of speeches about where to begin. Back streets of hustle… Boulevard of dreams… Endless avenues for ambition. Where will we go? How will we get there? Who do we want to be when we arrive? Soon September will reveal its syllabus of next steps.

It’s a lot to take in. Potentials and pitfalls spin like copper pennis that never land. Indecipherable expectations set up sinkholes of insecurities. Identity is not God hitting a pop shot over midfield hoping you catch it. It’s not an emotional Rubix cube you can twist into compliance or a boot camp for the highly evolved. You can’t try train hard enough You can’t win. And you can’t give up. It’s a full-blown conundrum until you realize the truth.

There is no giant stuffed giraffe for the lucky few who ‘get it’ because there’s nothing to get. Instagram posts suggest otherwise. Self-help books promise eureka and euphoria. It’s all a megalomaniacal ruse. Bait-n-switch bonanza. I jumped on the bandwagon straight away. Stalked happiness. Hunted peace. Tried desperately to shore up my shortcomings and bolster my brand image. But relentless self-improvement sucks the life out of life. Why argue with reality when you can watch furry, fuzzy goslings graze on grass?

FIVE. Blanket assumptions pigeon-hole people in prisons.

Before embarking on her dreaded eight millionth book tour Elizabeth Gilbert made a radical decision. She opted not to start dead end conversations that begin with– What do you do?  Where are you from? A married bank teller from Missouri may want to be drag queen from Miami. David Sedaris asks questions like– Do you have any guns at home? Do you collect owls or other predatory birds? Apart from alleviating the banality of book signing boredom, it encourages people to be their fabulous, freakiest selves. Frees them from the box of biases. Who are you?

Pastry chef. Plumber. Pimp. Labels abound. Lover, cheater, diva, drunk– but they reveal little. D1 athlete. Staunch republican. Single parent. Identity cannot be wrangled in by attributes and affiliations. Captured with income brackets. We are a wilderness of mystery. Not some ticker tape of decisions and accomplishments. Let’s lose the diatribe of downloads. Chuck the chit-chat. Nix the play-by-play assault of meaningless minutia. Parallel monologuing has become an American pastime. It makes me want to stab my eyes out. Scream like a three-year-old. Or fake a migraine. Instead, I smile and nod.

But I don’t want to engage in small talk. I want to talk about passion so big it erupts like a volcano from our hearts. I don’t want to catch up. I want to overflow. I want to know… What are you killing yourself to get right that you keep getting wrong? What do you love most about your life? What are you reading or watching or doing that inspires you? What keeps you up at night, makes you leap out of bed in the morning? I used to be afraid to ask. Afraid people would realize I was a freak but in The Art of Disappearing, Naomi Shihab Nye says this, “Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble at any second. Then decide what to do with your time.”