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Spinning a story of fiction is, in many
ways, easier than writing a story of fact. Stories of real life do
not have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Most works of fiction
slowly build up to a climax and then quickly wind down to a
conclusion. Real life is far more complicated than fiction. Real
life is often long periods of boredom punctuated by significant
events. The stories of a real life arise from the interactions of
many stories of many lives. Any single story from the life of one
person may also reflect a mere slice of several other stories of the
life of that same person.
I do not believe it is possible to
write a single narrative encompassing any of the stories of my own
life. What is needed is a set of stories. Some of these stories run
in parallel to one another, some intersect one another, some start
and never end, and some end but never start.
There are many ways of describing a
person. Some people are described as simple and some as complex. I
think I am a very complex person. Anyone believing otherwise does
not know me. Knowing me takes a very long time. Who I appear to be
today may be very different from who I appear to be next week. To
form an opinion about me from any slice of time is to ignore the fact
that each person sees only one face, not all faces.
Each relationship forms a context.
Each context is part of the mind's embodiment and embodiment plays a
significant role in identity. In a nutshell, what I am in one
context is not the same thing that I am in another. Until you have
known me in all my different contexts over an extended period of
time, you do not really know who I am.
Who is the real me? Isn't this an
outmoded and quaint assumption? Is there anything we can call the
real anyone? Our cells are replaced over time. Our interests change
over time. Even what we like to eat changes over time. Who we wish
to talk with or pass our time with can change from hour to hour. How
can there really be a real anyone?
Think of your best friend and think of
who you are when you are alone with your best friend. Think of how
you speak in that context. Think of what you relate and how you
express yourself. Now, think of yourself in a very different
context. Perhaps you are walking down the street when someone
wearing a mask grabs you by the head and holds a knife to your
throat. Have you ever been the victim of a violent crime? I have.
In that moment, are you the same person you are as when you are with
your friend? Suppose you are being tormented for years on end.
Maybe you're a victim of fascism held at Guantanamo. Maybe you're in
an abusive relationship and your husband beats you nightly. Perhaps
you're the victim of stalking by an anonymous coward. Is the you
that you are under those circumstances "the real you?" Is that
you any less you than the you with your best friend?
The fact is that there is no "real
you." At best, there are many "real yous" which pop in
and out of existence as the context changes. Some of these "yous",
upon popping back into existence, continue from where they left off
when they last popped out of existence.
If you are married and work at a place
where your spouse does not work, you know that your married life
resumes when you get home just as your work life resumes when you
return to the office. Who you are in each of these context differs
with context.
To tell a story from your life, you
could lay down all of these different "yous" and then
weave a complex narrative that incorporates all of them into one long
story, but would this do any justice to the individual stories?
Aren't many of the stories of your life free-standing expressions of
meaning? Doesn't it take something away from these when other
stories of your life and the lives of others are woven into them?
Perhaps there is one most meaningful short story within your life?
If that story is to be submerged within the larger boredom of your
life, will it not lose its message? I think it might.
Thus, here I am laying down in letters
many of the significant stories of my life. Some of these stories
run in parallel and some intersect one another. Nevertheless, they
are told as separate stories because I think telling them together
would take their significance away. The Steve who befriended a
Mexican prostitute is a different Steve from the Steve who befriended
a spoiled brat from Palos Verdes, though their two stories intersect
and effect one another. The Steve who was married at that time to a
Vietnamese woman is distinct from these two other Steves. The Steve
who protested against the first Gulf War during the same period is
yet another Steve. Yes, all of these instances of myself share a
common memory and a common body, but they are manifestations of my
mind within completely different contexts. To call any one of them
"the real me" is an injustice to "the other mes", all
of which are as much me as "the real me".
These experiences have convinced me
that there is good and bad in all of us. It is a reality we often
wish to ignore. Heidegger, the great philosopher that he was, was
also a Nazi. Benjamen Franklin, a wise and brave man, was a
womanizer. Martin Luther King stood up and gave his life for his
fellow man, but he cheated on his wife. A homeless man once saved my
life. We all do works of good and works of evil, that is what makes
us human. If you believe that the bad in a person outweighs the
good, you surely do not know that person. Even Hitler was loved.
Think about that. In my own case, one of the persons I loved more
than any other turned out to be the most evil person I ever knew.
The simple fact is that we do not really know each other and we never
will. The next time you see a prostitute, a homeless person, a
drunkard, a doctor, or a debutante, remember that.
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