Mistaken Identity

From Menletter November 2008

By Tim Baehr

My father-in-law, Hans, was walking down the street one day when a man greeted him with an enthusiastic "Hi, Fred!"

Hans said, "I'm not Fred."

"I'm sorry," said the man. "I thought you were someone else."

"I am."

I Thought You Were Someone Else

I wonder how often people look at us and see someone other than who we are. I mean people who actually know us, or think they do.

We're identified and defined by others for our entire lives. It starts with our parents and continues with our teachers, our bosses and co-workers, our spouses - and by our mass-media-driven society. In some cases, we're put into categories (men are all alike; what do you expect - he's a Midwesterner; he falls neatly into the over-40 demographic; you're supposed to like sports). In other cases, we're defined as a projection of someone else's fears and neuroses (you'll never make it as a doctor; you're inconsiderate; you're a genius; you're stupid). And in yet other cases, our identity is a product of other people's expectations (but you like the seashore; I thought you'd be more enthusiastic about your cousin's wedding; you've always liked broccoli).

Past is often prologue. In our immature years we establish ourselves as irresponsible, or we're labeled that way by others. We make pronouncements about how we feel about certain things. We choose certain professions or pastimes. Later, it becomes nearly impossible to convince others that we have changed: But you're a dentist. But you hate dogs. But you have no use for children. But you're an atheist. You said you hate travel.

It's very easy to get stuck with a series of labels based on the perceptions other people have of us. We try to break free, especially during the turmoil of adolescence. We become introspective, moody, trying to figure out our place in the universe. This classic, tortured who-am-I journey of adolescence can be helpful to some, but often we emerge from this process with nothing more than a new set of labels. We think we've defined ourselves, but what we've really done is choose a new identity from previously unexplored labels that were already available.

If the Shoe Fits

There may be people in our lives who do see in us, accurately, things we cannot see in ourselves. An aunt or uncle may see the swan inside the pre-teen ugly duckling. A teacher may suss out a latent talent. A parent may help build up a child's self-confidence against youthful taunts and bullying. A boss or mentor may see us as an expert or leader and put us on the path to fulfilling work.

These labels, these identities, can be useful antidotes to the less helpful, less insightful, more harmful kinds. The fit may be good, and we're glad to wear the labels. But they're still labels; they're still someone else's perceptions.

Finally, we come to accept a hodgepodge of our own discoveries, other people's identifying labels, and society's expectations as our "self." We become comfortable, to a great extent, in a many-layered costume we neither wove nor cut, acting on a stage with a script we didn't write.

The Flip Side

Robert Burns (1759-1796) put it another way in "To a Louse" (1786): "O wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as ithers see us!" In the poem, Burns is sitting behind a woman in church and watches in horrified fascination as a body louse cavorts in the lace of her bonnet. Her self-image does not include being host to vermin, but there it is, right in front of Burns's eyes. Burns concludes that seeing ourselves as others see us could free us from many a blunder.

Burns was seeing the mistaken identity from another angle. He was referring to the fact that we are too vain to see ourselves clearly, and that other people would have a much less flattering but much more accurate view - a view that might save us from "blunder."

It may be a gift to see ourselves through the eyes of others. Sometimes, I suppose, such a view could be enlightening to the point that we'd change our lives. But I find Burns's observation a little snide. The woman may have been horrified to find a louse in her bonnet, but did her ignorance of it make her less of a person? If she knew about it, would she have abandoned all her vanity and gone to work for an exterminating company? Also, who was watching Burns? Maybe he had a big booger hanging from his nose.

Outside In

How do we sort out the self we think we know, the self that is the creation of others, and whatever "true" self exists, so far unrevealed to everyone? Do we all have a secret identity that we can find, like Superman, only in the nearest phone booth? How do we unwrap and unravel the costume; how do we begin to write our own script?

We can accept as provisional what we think we know about ourselves from all the external and internal sources. After all, we have to start somewhere, and total amnesia is probably not the best place to start. We do have to get through our days and function.

But when something is provisional, we are looking ahead (literally: pro+vision) to something different. The search starts. Many of us face a life transition that begins the inner search: a divorce, an empty nest, retirement, an illness, the death of one or more contemporaries. This midlife transition can feel a lot like the teen angst of our earlier years, but without the hormones, pimples, and fast driving.

So we begin, or continue, what now looks like a lifelong search. Some of us read, go on adventures, change religions, make new friends, or take lovers. Some of us find new gurus.

Does it work? I have a friend who seems to take on a new identity every year or so, depending on which book he's read or experience he's had. He's a quick study, so he even begins teaching some of the new stuff and running seminars. I suspect he's acquiring new identities, new labels, from external sources. But since the sources are gurus and shamans, they feel authentic. It seems that he's wrestled himself out of one set of traps and fallen into new ones.

We may be subject to the same traps. If all we've known is an identity that's been largely outsourced to others, we may, out of habit or by active choice, continue to look outside ourselves. But even if we consciously and deliberately outsource to better sources, we're still outsourcing.

Inside Out

The key, and I'll admit freely that this is provisional, is time alone. Or, more accurately, time with ourselves. In half a lifetime or more, how much quality time have we spent with ourselves? Being alone for even just a few minutes a day can seem an eternity, and our ruminations intrude: Does the laundry need doing? What's for dinner? What's Ann doing in the kitchen? I haven't paid the bills.

Part of the rumination is just habit. We've had a lifetime of this internal chatter, and it's a hard-to-break habit. Part may also be a way of avoiding fear. What if I spend time with myself and discover someone I don't like? What if I discover . . . nothing? What if I find nobody home, with no identity other than the one acquired from outside?

It's a risk worth taking. We can spend time alone, meditating or just being with ourselves. We learn to ignore the ruminations, or let them pass by without latching onto them. We do this regularly. We do this without expectations.

We trust that someone is there. We trust that this is the best someone we'll ever meet. We may not meet the self we thought we were, but a larger Self that is a member in good standing of the vastness of existence. We're looking for our essence, and the literal meaning of "essence" is "being." And we may discover that our being is all the universe demands of us.

We thought we were someone else.

We are.

And it's good.