Who Are You?
- 03
- 18
- 10
(This is fiction. But I wish it were real.)
She sat there. In the back of the coffee shop. At a small round table. She wore headphones and squinted into her laptop screen. She checked her watch at ten minute intervals and her phone at five. She clutched a yellow highlighter and rifled through a small stack of papers. In the moments when she concentrated, the tip of her tongue poked out from her mouth. When she was stuck or stalled, trying to think up the right words, she placed that highlighter squarely in her mouth and looked up. At the line at the coffee bar which alternated between long and short. She watched the people. How they tapped their feet and adjusted their bags. How they leaned in when ordering their complicated concoctions.
She searched for smiles, but didn’t spot too many.
And this was a safe place to look because no one seemed to look back. No one seemed to see her. To notice. For her, this was material without consequence. But then. When she was conjuring the perfect way to portray a little girl’s longing for her lost teddy bear, she caught his eye. An older man. He noticed her. He studied her. When he collected his coffee from the lady behind the cash register, he walked over. And sat down.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi.”
She tidied her papers. She twirled her highlighter. Her eyes escaped to her screen.
And he smiled. Sipped daintily from a tall cup. And asked her a simple question.
“Who are you?” he asked.
And she paused. In her mind, she weighed the appropriateness of this exchange, the decades of distance between them. But then she gave him what he asked for. What she thought he asked for.
“I’m X.”
With this, his smile expanded. He placed his coffee on her papers. And clarified.
“That’s not what I asked. I didn’t ask for your name,” he said. “Who are you?”
Now, she was exquisitely stumped. She looked to her screen, but its brightness offered no answers. And then she fessed up.
“I have no idea. I have no idea who I am.”
And then, impossibly, his smile grew wider and he retrieved his coffee and stood up. And as he did, he looked down at her. Made her feel tiny and unsophisticated and lost. He looked her deep in the eye, for as long as she would allow, and then bid her adieu.
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you had any idea.”
And then he turned and walked away. She noticed a limp. How he dragged his left leg only slightly. She watched as he snaked along the wall and by the newest lineup of strangers seeking a jolt. She watched as he approached the door and then paused as a big group entered.
And she surprised herself. She jumped up. She left her computer. Her phone. Her spot. Her haven. Her world. Her self. And she ran.
She tapped his shoulder on the sidewalk as he pulled out a cigarette. He turned. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. This was his biggest smile so far.
“I don’t know who I am,” she said. “I don’t know how to answer your question. And the minute I do, life will be over. I think the good life is about uncertainty. Without this particular uncertainty, I think it is all meaningless.”
He chuckled and lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Blew smoke into the winter air. She watched the smoke billow and fade.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl.”
At these two words, condescending and compelling, she smiled. At this nameless stranger. At fresh-faced understanding. And she looked up at the endless sky and turned to go. But before she did, she took care of something.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He paused, pinned her with his eyes, eyes cradled by life’s wrinkles, and titled his head.
“I haven’t a clue,” he said. “Not a clue.”
And she nodded fiercely. And walked away. Back to her things, to her spot, to her place. Suddenly, she felt the weightless bulk of a new blank slate. Suddenly, she had so many words.
So much to say.
___________________________________
- Who are you?
- Do you blog or read blogs to gather clues about who you are?
- Do you agree that identity is the biggest, most exquisite, question of existence?
I can...
I love this because I so agree that identity is so important, and elusive. That’s one of the things I love so much about each new phase of life, difficult as they are, because it illuminates some new part of our identity. Since I’ve moved away, the easiest way to explain my identity is to say I’m an American, which already gives someone a whole list of things about you, and it’s weird because I’ve never been that before — back in the US we’re all Americans so it isn’t an identity at all.
Keep it coming!
If someone probes a little deeper, I’m an english teacher, which is another set of assumptions, but still not who I am — which leads back to a great post you had a while ago about that “What do you do?” question.
This post also reminded me a little of the one you wrote about that obnoxious guy at tea, because (to speculate wildly) that’s probably the type of person who would think they could tell you exactly who they are. And that’s so much less compelling.
I love thinking about how all these ideas you write about inter-connect
Have you been reading Thomas Pynchon or something, lady? I like this.
I like this Aidan. I wasn’t sure where it was headed, but it made me smile. A good way to look at life. And true.
Yet another great question:
“What do you KNOW?”
This was posed to me by the Russian writer Yuri Nagibin at his dacha outside of St. Petersburg. A contemporary of Pasternak’s, he is equally esteemed there, although not widely translated in the west.
I’ve been thinking about that one for about 35 years or so.
What do I truly know?
Thank you for the stimulating dialogues. Your writing is beautiful.
kim
p.s. I’ve mentioned our mutual friend Lauren’s “detour story” challenge on my blog today:
http://kimarnoldblog.blogspot.com/2010/03/detours.html
Hope she gets some interesting stories.
Our identities change and evolve over time. Not only that but they morph from one to the next to the other, all depending upon who we happen to be speaking to at the time.
Jack,
I think that our external identities morph…our essential identity does not.
(just a thought.)
Kim,
That makes sense, but it begs the question of what is our essential identity. I have been a son for almost 41 years, a big brother for 39 and a father for almost 10.
Which of those are my essential identity? Or do I have to pick any.
Great piece, Aidan! Very compelling characters and a timeless concept.
I agree with other comments that there are aspects of our identity that are always changing. I believe that who you are at the very core of you will remain the same, and circumstances throughout your life bring out your best and worst qualities. I think. Maybe.
I never really put it into words, but I think that’s what my blog is about – figuring out the difference between you who think you are and who you really are, and finding some peace with never being able to define it in concrete terms.
I’m a first time commenter who recently found your blog.
I’ve been struggling with the question of who I am and what is my place in life. I went to law school, but after graduation, instead of taking the bar and getting a job like a proper girl, I moved abroad. This uprooting caused me once again to question my identity, my career choices, everything. I started blogging partially as a result of this.
I like your piece.
I just got the goosebumps. Lovely.
I love this. I think there are days where I know exactly who I am, and there are days I have absolutely no clue. And then, most days, I am somewhere in between. Who I Am changes every day, every minute, sometimes every second. It changes depending on who I’m with, what I’m doing, and how I’m feeling. It is not so much the ‘who i am’ question I struggle with so much as the ability to be that person at that moment with no apologies to anyone, including myself.
My first reaction was, “I hate this”. Not that I hate the writing (I adore your writing). I despised the situation. I despised that this person, this older man, approached her with his question and in an instant ‘Made her feel tiny and unsophisticated and lost’. I wondered who he thought he was asking such a question. And though I was delighted with the statement she made when she followed him outside, the condescending response, ‘Good girl’, insulted me.
But by directing the same question back to him she somehow reclaimed her station. It is exactly as you said: “she took care of something”.
I think this defensive reaction is natural and expected. What is not so clear are all the reasons behind why we have these reactions. An interesting thing to ponder this Thursday morning.
I love this writing. The question echoes through my life and is constantly evolving and changing. Thank you for making me think today, Aidan.
very nice. Nicely executed! Splendid imagination – I extend a hearty round of applause.
At the risk of sounding extremely pedestrian, I know who I am. I am a wife, mother, litigator, public servant, loyal friend, style junkie/shopper extraordinaire, hopeless romantic, traveler, hair straightener/highlighter, runner, baker and ILI commenter! It doesn’t mean some of these may drop out along the way or that new things won’t be added. Who I am is constantly expanding and contracting and I think, getting better with age but I do know who I am. And I kinda like her. Great post!
I’ve had someone randomly ask me that before. We always define ourselves by what we do or what we’ve accomplished. I wrote a post about labels a while back…
I try to define myself the way I see others.
LOVE
We all are. We just forget sometimes.
Realizing this story triggered something in my memory, I’ve finally tripped over it! The caterpillar scene in Alice in Wonderland. A wonderful scene!
The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
“Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.
Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then.”
“What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar, sternly. “Explain yourself!”
“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”
“I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.
“I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied, very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself, to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”
“It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar.
“Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,” said Alice; “but when you have to turn into a chrysalis—you will some day, you know—and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar.
“Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,” said Alice: “all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.”
“You!” said the Caterpillar contemptuously. “Who are you?”
Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.
Oh Aidan, your questions hurt.
Yes, I blog and read blogs and comment on blogs to figure out who I am. For so long, I have defined myself as a human doing, rather than as a human being, by what I did and for whom, rather than by sharing my essence. I have endlessly pointed out the ways in which I fall short of anyone’s and everyone’s expectations and standards.
Had I been the girl in the story, the man’s question and comment would have devastated me, leaving me ashamed, wordless and in tears.
I think who I am cannot be answered in a single phrase or even groups of phrases. The complex relationship between my religion, my philosophies, and my ideals dictate that no simple answer can be found. Yet, this doesn’t bother me. I feel safe in ambiguity.
The characters and this scene were stunningly portrayed. It makes me giddy to read your book.
Loved it!
Aidan, you’re an exquisite storyteller.
For as long as we’re alive, we’re evolving. And I believe that each time we act and react, we define ourselves further; ever searching for belonging yet very rarely ever finding it completely.
It’s a free form dance with no choreography. A song with no pre-written lyrics or melody. A novel that writes and re-writes itself. Or so I think. Of course I’m only guessing. Aren’t we all…
Oh so perfect. Aidan, you have a gift for story telling that illicits thoughtfulness. For me, who I am today is not who I was yesterday or who I will be next week. I am a work in progress, that will be finished only when I am. Cheers!
I am one of the world’s anonymous LADIES.
Leader
Activist
Daughter
Interested
Educated
Self-motivated