My Mistaken Identity

Last week, Tuesday morning, 4pm, I'm stumbling my way to the bus stop in a haze of sleep deprivation and despondence over a particular mid-term grade. The idea of claiming my fifth hour of sleep for the week as soon as my head hits that pillow is all I can think about. I reach the stop and there's a man already waiting, short, rotund, and honestly, slightly unkempt. I hear him address someone in a foreign tongue I am by now familiar with and am confused as there is no other person around. To my surprise, he's addressing me, "jgkfizrld", he repeats. "I'm sorry, I thought you were {Insert Eastern-Hemi country here}." I'm taken aback by his statement. "What an amazing compliment", I immediately think, "This is almost as good as the time I was declared honorary Black by my coworkers on MLK and Washington". I bask in the sweet multiness of my multiculturalism for a moment, then politely correct him. He asks me where I'm from. "The Philippines", I reply. He asks me how many states my country has. "I dunno, It's just a bunch of islands", I answer. He goes on about how his country has several states, just like the U.S. and then goes on naming some of them. I realize I have just been duped into a penis measuring contest, but that's ok, it was endearing in a strange way. He presents a package of what looks like medicine and asks what the recommended dosage is. His eyes aren't so good; he has glasses but they don't work anymore, so he says (Suddenly my mistaken nationality isn't so exciting). I examine the small box of No-Doz, and it recommends 1 every 3-4 hours. "One every 4 hours", I tell him. He thanks me and tells me that one of his friends said it would be good for headaches. I inform him that it's primarily used to stay awake, but that it would probably help headaches as well, considering caffeine is the primary ingredient in most headache medicines. He looks puzzled. "Caffeine, you know? coffee?". Oh, coffee! he realizes, making a coffee drinking motion with the box of No-Doz. Looking slightly disappointed that the magic box his friends had given him is no more exotic than a cup of Joe, he puts the No Doz back in his pocket. Soon his bus arrives and bids me good day.

My bus arrives shortly after. After ascending the steps and a quick scan, I spot empty seats in the back. Just as I'm about to pass into the rear half of the bus, I see someone in my peripheral scoot over, offering me a seat. For the sake of politeness I accept and sit down. I sneak a glance at my benefactor. Cute, dainty, silky hair, exposed University ID. I have a sneaking suspicion she's Persian. It's currently NoRooz and it would be rude and omissively insincere should I not wish her a Happy NoRooz. How often would an opportunity arrive to wish a genuine Persian, in this city, 'Happy NoRooz'? Rarely, that's how often. After an eternity of internal dialogue("You're being creepy, just keep quiet.") and debate pass, I muster the minimal nerve required to squeak out,"Excuse me. I hope you don't mind my asking, but are you Persian?". I was met with an enthusiastic smile and welcoming eyes followed by a concise "Nope". Failure. I become so busy in self reprimand ("This is why you don't talk to people, remember, idiot!") that I almost didn't notice her excuse herself past me as the bus arrives at her stop. A nod and a smile goodbye and she's gone and my mind turns back to the prospect of that fifth hour of sleep.

I was wrestling with the idea of identity recently. Not for too long, mind you. It didn't take much time to realize that stepping into the Colosseum of introspection while my subconscious played Cesar is utterly futile. I will always be ravaged by the fanged beasts of insecurities and barbarous gladiators of self-deprecation. Perhaps the memoir I'm reading had something to do with it. Perhaps I've watched one too many documentaries on Bernays. Perhaps coming home to an empty apartment is losing its already limited charm. Or perhaps that intensive psychoanalysis I underwent left some questions open. In any case, I ended up dwelling on queries for which the answers are unlikely knowable, or even if they are, the means of discovery would not justify the ends. How much of our identity is internal, a personal treasure trove of our secret gems and closet skeletons, and how much of the remaining, if any, is externally observable? Can we reconcile our environment's interpretation of us, with our own? I tried to picture how others would approach this issue and take stock of the multitude of haphazard components that compile them. "I am insincere", "I lack discipline", "I am heartbroken", "I am afflicted by Trichotillomania", "I am a Sith Lord", "I am competitive to a flaw", "I am laden with neurosis", "I am attached to my paranoia", "I colonize stem cells, "I love tablespoons of peanut butter", "I am a perfectionist", "I want nothing, but to watch Scrubs all day", "I am embracing my mediocrity". Ultimately, my mind's skulduggery got the better of me, but my momma always taught me that touching base with one's thoughts can help prioritize and bring some order to a potentially chaotic life. Besides, having a dialogue with yourself doesn't necessitate schizophrenia, does it? No, it doesn't.