Mistaken Identity
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“Woman finds herself,” the headline read. And she did. Literally. Not in the metaphysical kind of way where after weeks and months of meditation and soul-searching she discovered who she really was, but in the physical kind of way where she went looking for a missing person and discovered she was her. It happened in 2012 in Iceland as a group toured the volcanic region near the Eldgja canyon. The woman was part of a sight-seeing group that made frequent stops for look abouts and at one of them she took the opportunity to seek out a restroom where she could change her clothes and freshen up. When the group reconvened a few hours later, it was determined that an "Asian female in dark clothing who speaks solid English” did not reboard the bus and was, thus, missing. Touring was suspended as a search for her ensued. Local authorities got involved. Helicopters were dispatched. Information posts were erected. For over 12 hours, 50 members of the tour group, including the woman they were searching for, desperately canvassed the area looking for the one they had lost. The search was finally called off when the woman realized she was the one missing in action. In the description given by the bus driver, she had failed to recognize herself.
That’s how it typically happens. We don’t know we don’t know who we are.
Identity development starts the moment we are born and continues shifting throughout our lifetime. Our sense of self—what we love, what we don’t, the things we believe in, the things that give us juice, the way we see ourselves—anchors in most profoundly during adolescence but it can twist and torque, sometimes dramatically, as we slip in and out of the seasons of our lives.
Though we’re born with certain personality traits that come riding on our DNA, the world provides a lot of fodder for who we think we are. And factors that influence the image we carry accumulate. Things like our track record, the feedback we receive, and the reflections of the folks we line up beside create a mold we live to fit. We get tagged and labeled early and often. She is the “good kid.” The creative. The athlete. The sloth. The troublemaker. The flamboyant one who follows the beat of her heart. Sometimes the descriptors stick for life, sometimes they don’t. Regardless, little pieces of them hang around like mica, becoming a part of what makes us, us.
Sometimes we just assume the mold somebody hands us. Sometimes we become ingrown with what we do. And sometimes we just default into an image that’s inaccurate but easy. A set of clothes we can comfortably wear, though they don’t necessarily fit. But more often then not, we just keep going, unaware that if we saw our own refleciton, we might not recognize ourselves.
And then, life pops us with an uppercut. And we find out —in no uncertain terms—exactly who we really are. Sometimes it’s the loss of a loved one or the loss of a job. It’s a diagnosis, or a house fire, or a tornado, or a break-up that leaves us shaken and exposed. And other times it’s just the opposite. It’s the jackpot that lands on our head—the baby that arrives, the job that’s offered, the relinquishing of a habit that has tethered us to lies. Though marvelous and horrific lie on opposite ends of the spectrum, they both knock all the rust off creating a clearer view. Who we are when faced with maybe nothing or more than we ever dreamed of are the places where it feels safest to take realistic stock. Something about the first or the last few inches of things makes it easier to see what is real.
Fourteen years ago my mom was diagnosed with non-hodgkins lymphoma. To it, through it, and beyond it, she turned out to be herself. But I have friends who became different humans on the other side of a divorce. And others who feel like the tourist in Iceland when they put their careers to bed. The case of mistaken identity is more pervasive than we might think.
The lost tourist story is rooted in all sorts of conundrums. After years of counting bodies—three, four, sometimes five times before allowing a bus to depart—I can’t imagine why the driver of the bus didn’t just count. Why would appearance, not a headcount, be their gauge? Why wouldn’t the woman realize that she was carrying the clothing the driver had described? Did not even one person on the bus notice that the woman had made a change of clothes? The questions could go on and on and on, and yet, logic is part of the mistaken identity formula that often gets left out.
The image we carry in our head of ourselves is often tragic, inaccurate, and irrational. And it can drive us into circumstances that don’t make any sense. The mica collection over time adds up. If we don’t play a role in how we piece it all together, the image we wind up with might not look much like us at all.