On Who I Is

Last weekend I went to see the rebooted Spider-Man movie. SPOILER ALERT: At the end of the movie there's a great line from a completely ancillary character (a high school teacher), who says, "I had a professor in college who told us that there were basically 10 plots in all of fiction. I disagree. There is only one: 'Who am I?'"

Okay, fine, so the spoiler is that I'm a nerd who went to see the rebooted Spider-Man movie.

Why is identity the fundamental question of fiction? Because art imitates nature and the fundamental question in all of our lives is who I am.
Let me tell you a story. It's a quick one, and, as usual, it's about me. Last Saturday I was visiting with a priest friend of mine, wasting time and playing guitar. He is an excellent singer, so the two of us were messing around with some harmonies on old folk songs (nerdtacular enough yet?)

That's me, on the right. Behind the fence and running into the house to get my ear plugs.

At one point, Fr. made the drastic mistake of thinking we actually sounded good and pulled out a recorder. When we listened to the playback, it was clear that we did not sound good. Or, to be more precise, that I did not sound good. Now let's back up a moment.
I, in an attempt to "improve myself," have been taking singing lessons once a week for roughly the last five months. Over that time, my teacher has repeatedly told me that I've shown marked improvement (I can only assume that where I started was disastrous indeed). On top of this, I've been belting out lyrics to turned-up radios and in showers since I was old enough to realize that music is awesome (i.e., since the fetal stage). I taught myself to play guitar in high school so that I could play at open mics, and I've played in a couple of bands over the years, doing backing vocals here and there. Realizing that through all of this I've probably sounded like a cross between Bullwinkle and a rock compressed retroactive embarrassment for nearly a decade of public humiliation into about 30 seconds of listening to myself.
Now, this isn't one of those "oh I hate myself so much and you should feel bad for me and please tell me about how much you've loved my singing over the years" moments. This is an honest assessment of my singing abilities (no, I will not put up a recording of myself to prove it).
After that, I had another series of revelations: I'd thought I was at least a decent singer, which turned out to be false. What else had I been thinking about myself without any basis in reality? For on thing, I've always liked to think of myself as a writer. Poetry, short stories, essays, etc. They all roll off the tip of the pen (or the underside of the keyboard) like a greased turkey down a steep hill.

I say! Err, well, I suppose I write.

Reality check: I've written nothing in the past year except this blog and my MA thesis, and have never been published beyond college reviews. Therefore I am not a writer.
I also like to think of myself as a runner. I've run two marathons and a half marathon and numerous 5k's. As a matter of fact, I just ran a 5k last Sunday.

There I am! About 30 people back on the left, and not actually in this picture or this race.

Reality: While I did run this last Sunday, prior to that I hadn't run since my last 5k, in December. And before that it had been over a year since I'd been out on the road for anything even resembling a jog (still finished in 27 minutes, though. Nowhere near anything that could be considered 'good,' but still not my worst). Therefore I am not a runner.
I also love reading books. When I was a kid, I'd tear through several a week, no problem. I read the 7th Harry Potter (okay, fine, I wasn't a kid when that came out) in 18 hours straight. I've also been known to devour books on philosophy and theology, as well as the classics.

I would never even dream of owning a Kindle. They just don't smell the same.

Reality: while I've always got a book or two on hand, I've also got shelves and shelves of books that I haven't read yet. Seems I've fallen more into collecting books than actually reading them. And I can hardly go a day without someone going slack-jawed with a "You've never read Brideshead Revisited?!" or a "Seriously? You only got 100 pages into Infinite Jest?" (more like Infinite-ly Boring). What can I say? I was a Lit. major back in the fore-years. Therefore, despite past conquests, I am not a reader.
The list can go on (and on and on). I'm not a songwriter, I'm not an artist, I'm not a poet, I'm not a leader, I'm not a good cook, I'm not very well groomed, I don't have a nice wardrobe, and I still haven't figured out where I can buy mustache wax so I can do those little curly-ques on the ends.

Awwwwww, yeah.

But don't get me wrong here. I'm not saying "Oh my life is so terrible and I'm such an awful failure!" It's such an odd reaction in our society that when we try to talk about faults and finitude, people will inevitably think to themselves "In order to be a good friend, I must contradict him when he admits to not being perfect," then say something to the effect of "Oh, Inkler, I've read your poetry, and it's quite good!" That's not my point. And if any of you think to say, "But Inkler, I've seen you, and you're not really so terribly groomed after all..." I shall strike you from my friend list. NOT MY POINT.

What then is my point? My point is that my identity can't come from anything I do myself. Even if I were really good at these things, I still would not be the best. The simple truth is that the pool is far too big for me to be the best at anything (particularly if we include not only all 7 billion people alive today, but also all the people who have lived). Now, I know, I know, statistically someone has to be the best there is at some activity. Someone out there can lift more weight than anyone else. Someone is better than anyone else at identifying types of brachiopods. Someone really was the quickest draw in the West. But is that enough for an identity? Would you walk up to someone at a party and say "Hi! I'm the guy/gal who read the Webster's Dictionary cover to cover in 4 minutes, 3 seconds"? Sure, you might, but that's only a conversation starter, it doesn't encapsulate you.

You may also, conceivably, introduce yourself as a fan of polka, though this may be a second- or third-meeting type of conversation rather than a right-off-the-bat statement.

And my goodness, this post is already rather long. Get your head in the game, Inkler! (And now I'm talking to myself...)

The point is this: if I am not defined by my actions, even as admittedly mediocre as I am at them, then who am I? This is the fundamental question of fiction because it is the fundamental question of our hearts. This question masks a deeper one though, one which is much more frightening: am I worthy of love? Why be the best guitarist? Why be the funniest comedian? Why be the greatest writer? In order to be loved. It's just like the animal kingdom - I must be the best (at least within a certain radius of distance) in order to attract attention. But if I can't even define myself with any sort of accuracy, can I be loved? Who am I? Is that person who I am worthy of love?

I will give you the easy answer, but by starting it this way, I am telling that it will be a struggle. The easy answer is yes - I am the beloved. I am made for love. Before I moved or breathed God knew me and loved me. Before I could do anything productive for my parents, before I could speak, before I could even understand or recognize them, my parents loved me. I know that I am lucky in this, but I'm sure I don't know how lucky.

That is the easy answer, and it is true. Before we are anything, we are loved. Without questioning the truth of this as the basis of all human being and loving, I must say that this is a struggle to believe. This is a struggle to accept. It is so tempting to try to define ourselves, to hold up our accomplishments and actions as badges of our worth. It is so tempting to believe that love must be earned, by behavior, by avoiding sin, by making sacrifices in order to receive that love. That's where the terrifying image of God as judge who keeps a tarry card of our sins and good deeds comes from. It is terrifying because we cannot outsmart God. We cannot weigh the scales in our favor.

This is so tempting, and I can guarantee that 100% of the despair in our world springs from this question of who I am, and whether that person is worthy of love. Knowing that it is only love that defines us does not relieve us of the terrible question, the terrible doubt. It is one thing to "know" something intellectually, it is an entirely different thing to live that knowledge, to be that knowledge. It is a different thing, and it is a constant struggle to allow God's love to define us. But that is what life is: one long, long lesson - one long, long love letter - in allowing ourselves to be loved first, and living out our response to that.

Ah, the good old days.