PERSONAL IDENTITY: WHAT TO LOOK FOR

Personal identity starts the moment you meet someone.

You’ve got yours, they’ve got theirs, and the games begin.

Maybe you go first and talk about the love you feel for where you grew up.

Or they go first and talk about why they left where they grew up as fast as they could.

After that things get complicated.

What happens when you throw a change-up and decide a ‘New You’ is the way to go?

One night I attended a music meeting on Portland’s Eastside. It was a Blues Music meeting, held once a month and featuring a band.

After the usual proceedings ended the band took the stage. It was a while back so I don’t remember the band, but I do remember one thing:

An older man asked himself to dance and stood alone beside the stage and swung.

“Who’s that?”

“He’s been here doing that for as long as I’ve come to meetings.”

“Is he a player?”

“No, he’s a dancer.”

And that’s what he was, that’s what he did. Not a bad dancer either, didn’t step on his own toes.

If ever someone danced like no one was watching, it was him.

I started planning my future that night: dance alone, get a tattoo series inked on my arms and back, and get a Harley with rattle pipes to cruise around on.

Instead of a fat, suburban daddy with a Midnight Wine Fender Strat, I’d slim down and chill out.

After the meeting I went home and told my wife of my epiphany.

“Okay, Cool Kat, but first take out the garbage and remember our parent/teacher meetings at the kids’ school tomorrow night.”

“I’ve got a tattoo appointment tomorrow night.”

“I hope it’s not some shade-tree tattooist with dirty needles full of Hep C.”

“I’m thinking about getting a Harley Fat Boy.”

“Your last motorcycle was a Honda 100 you rode in 1973, Captain America. That’s quite a jump.”

“Still got my motorcycle endorsement. Besides, a motorcycle is a motorcycle.”

“Remind me how to avoid a high side crash, Bronson?”

New Personal Identity Replaces Old?

There was a guy in his twenties who met a girl and planned their life together. Part of the plan was him moving across the country.

Not a part of the plan was her getting hustled by some hometown Lothario at the local pizza joint and keeping it to herself.

Also not part: Canceling the future with her guy but keeping it going in the present until she accidentally met the next guy. She found a new personal identity. The guy with no future in her life found one too.

He moved a two hours away and met a woman who loved books.

She was a reader who had the entire inventory of Charles Dickens lined up on her apartment shelves.

He’d met her over dinner at a friend’s place and walked her home.

She invited him in. He saw the books.

“I have everything Dicken’s wrote.”

“I’d say you love Dickens.”

“I love Dickens and Outs.”

“Is that the one that starts with, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“You mean, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.””

“Yes, that one.”

“No, but despair rhymes with bare.”

“I noticed you used jars of screws for bookends.”

“Come over here and I’ll explain.”

“Sounds the best of times.”

The Lost Identity Of A Pathological Liar

One aspect of personal identity is stolen valor.

I met a man with an Army captain’s uniform in his closet.

“You know, looking back, the hardest part of the war was writing letters to the family of my platoon.”

An adult son stood in the other room.

“You must be proud of your dad.”

“Oh, I am. But that uniform came from college ROTC that he dressed up. He was never in Vietnam.”

I use this example because as an Army Pfc for two years we got drilled to respect the uniform if not the man.

If some butter barred shitbird decides to flex their new-found power, we of the Pfc were a convenient target. And we took it. They are an officer, no matter the rank, and officers get their due respect from O – 1 through O – 10.

Whether ROTC, OTS, or first in class from The Citadel or West Point, they speak for god and privates listen. After the officers, the privates listened to their Sergeants, or non-commissioned officers, who explain why Shavetails are full of shit, but will improve.

The Uniform Matters

Today, November 3, we see people in front of microphones and cameras after the election. Winners and losers make their appearance.

Time is moving on ballot by ballot, but there are a few things undecided. There’s a man still accusing state election officials of cheating him out of his biggest day. Other men use the same ploy.

All candidates can raise funds on the claim if they do one thing: Agree.

At the same time more is revealed about January 6th, a haunting day that can’t go away.

With that in mind, I’m changing into my Granddad uniform and looking into a baby’s face.

One is barely walking and seems thrilled to know their legs work.

Another has barely been born and still adjusting to the new room.

The third baby is in between the first two, getting ready for their first roll-over.

In the big picture of world events and national movements, these are small things. These are the same small things happening in villas and mansions and farm houses and ranch houses and sheds and tents and caves.

The progress of life at its most vulnerable happens everywhere on earth occupied by us.

We share the same concerns:

Don’t wander off, don’t let the head flop; don’t worry so much.

I’ve looked into these baby-faced faces and saw the same thing: ‘Give us a chance and we’ll do things that need getting done. We won’t carry forward hate and fear.’

Readers, your faithful blogger thought the Boomer generation would do the job of putting hate and fear away. What happened?

Now we hope our kids don’t secretly carry hate and fear forward.

So far the babies are cooperating on the work to be done. Their personal identity is strong.

I’m not asking for comments on this post. If you’ve stuck around this long, that’s good enough.

Thank you.