Identity and Influence and Essence

At a Shabbat dinner last Friday night one of the conversation, or rather intense discussion, topics was identity. The gentleman to my right, an accomplished writer and self-described nerd, posited that we can't change our identities. He is disturbed by the fact that our culture allows if not encourages us to do so, that it is perfectly acceptable in some circles to wake up one day and decide to be someone completely different. Many celebrities have kept themselves in the limelight by doing just that. We can't change the past, he argued, and the past leaves an imprint on our current selves.

I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.

I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.

And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.

I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.

So, who am I really?

I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.

Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?

But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.

To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.

On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).

The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.

Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.

Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.

I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.

My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.

"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.

"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."