Sixties Chick

The cryptic message on the machine said, “This week, ask yourself this question: Who Am I?”

Damn her, that Dona. Do I need this? And from a friend no less. Doesn’t she know I’m smack in the middle of a “freaking out over finances” frenzy? There’s been no trickle trickling down and the cash that needs to flow has dried up somewhere in that proverbial pipeline. Where’s my stimulus package?

So with time on my hands and against my will and better judgment, I begin to ponder. Let’s see. Who am I? Dear me. Maybe it’s better to start with who I am not.

Clearly, most people would agree I am not my bank account (thank God), my marital status, the car I drive, the house I live in, the success and failure of my kid, or the pedigree (or not) of my dog. And with all due respect to nutritionists, not even the food I eat.

OK. So, maybe I am She who writes. It is, after all, how I like to define myself. But then, what if I never wrote another word? Suppose I got permanent writer’s block or my digits were blown to bits? Who would I be then? And if I am She who writes, do I need to qualify it with I am She who writes less well than Faulkner, a major He who wrote? Can I define myself as such without even a book to my name? That can’t be.

Am I She of the accrued experiences that began in May of 1947? She whose mother died when she was 16? She, the second of four girls? She who lived abroad? She who speaks Portuguese, and loves the arts? She, a mother at 40 with a liberal bent and a rebellious streak? Is that really who I am? Might seem so, but I think not.

Half way through the week, feeling quite put out by the whole exercise, I conclude that I am not my body, my nationality, my education or my religion. I am not my personality, not even my talents or my flaws.

How could I be She who doubts her own capacity? Or She who worries about money? Or She who looks in the mirror and sees crow’s feet instead of light? In my understanding of the cosmology, limited as it is, what sense would it make to be She who is not enough? But, at times, that’s how I see myself. Sometimes, I think that’s who I am.

I’m still working hard on this, though I expect a breakthrough any day. For now, I’m stripping away the best I can – the roles, the stories, the beliefs, the ego’s small vision of who I am. My answer, I suspect, will be found in that deep and silent place where the mind can not go. I’m hoping for something like She who’s fulfilling her purpose. Whatever it is, I will get to the bottom of it.

And when I’m asked how it is I came to know myself, to be so very enlightened, I will smile and say, with gratitude, “T’was all that extra time on my hands, thanks to a lousy recession.”

Last night I heard fellow English major Garrison Keillor say that when he was a young man, he had a fear of living an ordinary life. It was not until he reached middle age, upon witnessing the quite common yet wondrous event, the birth of his child, that he discovered that “ordinary was good enough.” I loved the comment, but then I love Garrison Keillor, bushy eyebrows and all.

With the death of Michael Jackson, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to live what can be called a not so ordinary life. To be famous, always in the public eye, under constant scrutiny. What must that be like? Clearly, there can be consequences.

My friend Dona took Michael Jackson’s death hard. She remembers sitting on the stoop of her North Philly row home in the heart of the Black ghetto as a little girl. “Everyday was the same,” she shared with me, “a stultifying sameness, day after day. Nothing ever happened. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go.”

“When Michael Jackson came along,” she tells me with tears in her eyes, “the kids began to put on shows right there in the street. Here was their star; a five year old who looked like them, afro and all, from an ordinary family and an ordinary place. He was all the proof they needed that it was possible to get out. And they didn’t even have to wait until they were grown-up.” Dona remembers how the kids came alive in the desolation of the North Philadelphia “hood,” thanks to little Michael Jackson.

But for all the gifts he had and shared, Michael Jackson’s story feels so tragic at its core. The mania with the ever-lightening skin, the plastic surgery, the paranoia, the drugs, his refusal to grow up – clearly, this was a tortured soul. For all the adoration he got, why was it he never learned to adore himself?

Michael’s not alone. The list’s a mile long – great ones hurling themselves head first down the path to self-destruction – stars, tycoons, socialites, politicians, rulers and religious leaders alike. It is curious; after all, what could be so bad about being loved on a grand scale? To be the world’s darling? Even without the bling, the mansions and the limousines.

Yes, it might be a glorious ride indeed, but fans are fickle. The winds do change. Truth is, if you look to the outside world for proof that you count, you’re up shit creek. And if you aren’t willing to wrestle the demons deep inside, you’ll be without a paddle as well.

There’s no way around it I’m afraid, you’ve got to know who you are. Who you really are. Not the profession. Not the persona. We’ve all got to muster up the courage to dig deep inside and pull out the weeds. To look at them, embrace them and then finally, let them go.

There’s really no other gig worth playing. It’s about learning to love oneself. And for my money, learning to love oneself is what merits a big round of applause and a whole lot of press. For those willing souls, take a bow.