Identity crisis

Nicholas MacMahon, staff

Identity theft: it could happen to you. Right now, some schmuck in Papua New Guinea could be reading over your last bank statement. Sweat beads roll down his face, mixing with some goji berry face paint; a crimson rain washes away your indulgent expenditures, signalling the death of your old self and a bombardment of answering machine messages regarding overdraft protection.

. As a species, we are united with an unfortunate, yet pervasive fear of “identity loss,” when in reality, each of us is a social construction made up of tendencies, bad habits and a devil that can be traced back to kindergarten. “Children, you’re all snowflakes — advanced crystalline structures of which no two are alike — but some of you will be picked last during sports. Anyway, that’s the bell. Recess!” Fortunately, there’s a quaint aphorism for everyone, one that’ll sneak you to the front of the line, maybe even to the VIP entrance; such as: “The last shall be first,” “Money can’t buy happiness,” “Healthy mind, healthy body.” We yearn to discover something in ourselves that makes us invaluable to society. Denying our similarities and our failings, we struggle to create an identity and we will stop at nothing to protect it.

. Just look at the culture wars (nationalism, racism, prejudice, etc.) — they are radical, collective identity-preservation terrorism (RCIPT), and, although devastating, the last thing we want is a New World Order with the Religious Society of Friends at the helm. Up at 5 a.m., Quaker Oatmeal for breakfast (the overrated mixed-berry flavour) and back to bed until noon, skipping the abolition strategy meeting put on by Brother Jebediah.

. For those of us who shy away from religion, patriotism, or “mainstream-ism,” our individual identities scream for recognition, pushing aside our cultural identities, clearly discovering what is much more important (ego alert). I am the real torch-bearer, protecting something that is uniquely me . . . like . . . my long hair! Wait a minute, that was already done by brave, collective groups of hippies in the ’60s. And to go further and take their greasy fire away, they turned to Indian gurus and leftist biblical philosophers (early ’00s) for their inspiration. But, I don’t take psychedelics! Neither did Christ. But, but, but, I’m rebelling against the short-spiky dos of the recent ’00s! To toss my ego in the waste-bin, fashion comes in cycles. I’m no more original than a chap sporting the “messy look.” In addition, I’ve exploited this manly mane for so long that it has ceased to be rebellious. Now, I’m forced to take on a new stance altogether — I will rebel against myself and return to the social norms that I fought so hard to resist. This weekend, I’ll shave most of my head, leaving one V-shaped lock of coarse black hair to cover my left eye, drawing attention to my naked right eye, which will be covered with mascara and glitter. I’ll put on some lululemon spandex, stuffed with a pair of rolled up socks, of course, and head to the discotheque. I’ll drink to intoxication (rebelling against my sobriety) and welcome licentious gawking. Once again, an identity will be secured, until a new war needs to be protested. Any suggestions? Maybe I’ll take an active interest in Canadian politics. Would it be contentious to support Quebec’s sovereignty? Or how about a rally for the Alberta tar sands? I could chant with my cheap sign, “Toil for oil, not for soil.” Would that turn some heads?

. Arrange a funeral for your identity and accept the fact that you’re an unoriginal blob of flesh; our lives are miniscule compared to that common thread that created civilization and binds us together in cosmic jealousy: arrogance.