Identity is too big a word. It’s psychologized, and labeled. Psychobabbled, as an acquaintance of mine would say, repeated to the point of meaninglessness. Identity is a word that reminds me of my younger brother, trapped with me in the back seat of a station wagon, repeating my name, my name, over and over again, irritating me. A set up for me to smack him to get him to stop, then to hear a canned speech from the front about expecting me to be more mature than the whallop I just delivered. His smug smile.
First Identity: Mature One. Assigned role, not optional.
Sounds like a boat or a spaceship. The Mature One. Ready to stomp out regressed behavior with torpedoes of wit, redirection and new points of view.
God help me, I’d so much rather deliver the smack sometimes.
Second Identity: Established in reference to others, gender specific. Daughter. Wife. Mother. Aunt. Student. Feet square on the floor, skirt just below the knees, hair as orderly as this curly wavy edition can get.
Overlapped with first identity, and everyone around is pretty pleased. I’m not displeased. It’s pleasant to be loved and admired. No Windex needed, clear and bright.
Third Identity: My feet are a bit sore and I’m tired of even length skirts. No one is around to tell me, or cue me, to what daughters or mothers are supposed to do. I find a picture of my own mother, dressed in an elaborate chicken outfit, complete with chicken beak headgear and feathers, riding a horse. I admire this photo more than her modeling portraits. I hang out with Indians who are repeatedly robbed of everything until they put out their hands for the pills and needles every type of drug dealer will give them, drug dealers endorsed by the State or by the street. I don’t understand my home life, mostly I am not seen, although sometimes, although it’s hard to know if I was seen before, or if I morphed into something to quiet the turmoil, mine and others’.
Is sometimes seen good? Is it good enough? Or maybe it’s just evolution into reality and I lower my expectations. I have a secret identity now, I can’t fully be seen, like an object too small or too big, and no one really has the correct magnification.
A doctor wants a full inventory of menopausal symptoms.
I watch Dr. Who a lot , I see the 13 iterations. He changes, he doesn’t recognize his own face. A hairstylist incorporates the white streak in the front of my hair, someone complimented me once on this, there is a comic book siren who has this type of streak, she is young, it is due to a trauma. How striking! she says.
My white streak is due to age, I’m fairly certain. I’m not really sure how it got there.