Substitutes for Identity

Substitutes for Identity

(from "A Question of Presence" by Sergio Antonio)

I'm not my body. Nor my thoughts, nor my feelings.

I'm not the clothes I wear, the objects I surround myself with.

I'm not my opinions, my way of thinking.

I'm not my reputation, my behavior, my ethics.

My identity does not lie in my attitudes about anything: about the world, others, spirituality.

It's not my style, it's not my aesthetic sense.

It's not in my sense of justice.

It's not in my talent. It's not in my IQ. It's not in the books I've read, it's not in what I've learned.

It's not in the way I speak, in my turns of phrase, in the strength or subtlety of my reasoning.

It's not in my interest in esoteric ideas.

It's not in the secrets that I don't tell anyone.

It's not in my being prudent or impulsive.

It's not in the beliefs that I have developed, or in my sense of responsibility.

It's not my job, nor the effort and study that led me to do it, nor the ability to perform it.

My identity is not that fire that ignites and makes me feel alive when I get excited, feel passion, fall in love, love, hate. Nor is it that sense of well-being that I feel when I enjoy the activities that suit my essence.

It's not the happy smile of walking in a forest, it's not the favorite food, it's not swimming in a clear sea.

It's not when I’m positive and happy.

My identity is not in the people I love, in the respect I bring them, in their closeness and affection.

Peaceful, invisible, silent, quiet, my identity observes all this.

This is all said, much better, by the poet Walt Whitman:

"Trippers and askers surround me,

People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,

The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,

The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,

The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,

Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;

These come to me days and nights and go from me again,

But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,

Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,

Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,

Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,

I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait."

Whitman, Leaves of Grass, section 4 of "Song of Myself"

Image: Portrait of Lieven Willemsz van Coppenol, Writing Master (the larger plate), Rembrandt

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