Identity

I keep seeing an admonitory advert on the Internet of the dangers of not protecting my "identity" from would-be thieves. There exists a phenomenon known as "identity theft", in which your "identity" - the sixteen-digit number assigned to you by your bank that allows you to spend money you don't actually have - is used by some third party to make a series of lavish purchases while you get stuck with the bill. As I am the proud (?) owner of one of these slips of plastic bearing one of these numbers, I suppose I should be vigilant against potential "identity thieves", but I have to ask: what is it I am protecting, and what exactly is my "identity"?

During my twenty-eight years, four months and seventeen days in this human form, the concept of "identity" has probably been one of the most, if not the most, obfuscating. I've spent the last few years trying to find just who I am... on second thought, I've been doing this my whole life, and I don't suppose it should yield before I'm dead and gone.

The best place to start would be with the name I was assigned at birth and the sky blue linens in which I was clad to denote the set of reproductive organs that came with the package. As far as memory serves me, my first encounter with "identity" must have been the six-letter, single-syllable word hollered at me to garner my attention. Upon entry into the schoolyard herd, I was branded with a new label based on my attributes. I became the "brain", the "nerd", the "geek", given my ability to spell and solve math problems. I soon learned that such standing, while affording heaps of financial potential later in life, ranked at the bottom of the schoolyard food chain, thus I was eager to exchange my moniker for one of the ones the popular kids had, one boys would revere and to which girls would be attracted. Along the way (particularly as we approached our pubescent years), skin colour, socioeconomic status and taste in music/clothing/etc. became more salient: the preppy White kids congregated, as did the poor Black kids; and if any White girl happened to fancy a Black boy, she was assigned a brand of her own, much like the red "A" in The Scarlet Letter, but more resembling a Black penis, thus signifying to the White boys that she was somehow tainted.

My introduction to numerical "identity" came soon after graduation from the eighth grade, at which time, I was assigned a "social insurance number": nine digits indicative of my readiness to toil for White Man's capital. Shortly thereafter, I successfully opened my first bank account - on my own, that is, for my mother opened an account for me upon my egress from her womb - another ten digits to remember, plus my four-digit PIN, or "personal identification number". Oh, so many numbers swirling in my head; will I be able to remember them all? Wait: there are more! I was in high school now, and as such, I was identified by a six-digit number. When I turned eighteen, my first credit card arrived... and my second: thirty-two more digits. What's more, I gained admission into university, and with that, another nine-digit number by which I was to be identified (and, subsequently, another nine-digit number upon my return to university). Then came the jobs, and more numbers with them, but at least I also had snazzy titles by which to call myself, such as "research assistant" or "intern" or "engineer" or "project manager". Lest I forget, with adulthood comes bills to keep the lights and gadgets on, and bills to keep the house warm during the winter months, and bills for just about everything else, each containing a distinct string of digits to which my person is assigned.

I trust you can empathize with my identity crisis... that is, if you find yourself overwhelmed by it all. I suppose it's better (or merely easier) to not cogitate this subject, but alas, I cannot help myself, for I am confused. Who am I? How on Earth do I identify myself?

Better still, how do you identify yourself? Are you a doctor, a lawyer, a sanitation worker? Are you a metal head, a punk, a hipster, a hip-hopper? Are you the tattoos on your arms, the colour of your skin, the garments you wear, the roadster in your driveway? Are you your country of origin, your parents country of origin? Are you your government, your head of state, your flag?

Twenty-eight-plus years I've spent traversing the road to "identity", and all I've discovered is that it can be a meandering road to nowhere, especially since the answer to this quandary has been within me the whole time I was seeking it elsewhere. All this you see - the clothes, the house, the numbers on my banking statement, the very words on this page - are not me; perhaps they're a reflection of some part of me, which is why your perception of "me" will differ immensely from that of the next person, as you have so little information from which to draw your inferences. Only now, after months of spiritual guidance on the journey to myself, do I appreciate what "identity" is; hopefully, there will come a time, if not already, that you, too, will embark on a similar endeavour.

Let them have my credit card number, and my bank account number, and my student number, and my social insurance number, and my telephone number, and my driver's license number, and my passport number, and my house number, for I am not them, and they are not me. If you wish to see me, or anyone else for that matter, you won't find them on a résumé or a computer database, nor will you find them when select what qualities in a person you desire most while disregarding the rest.

Here, I shall pause to apologize for how didactic I seem. I don't mean to point my finger at you, for I am guilty of the same error. What I hope to convey is, your veneer is not who you are, so fear not the possibility of "identity theft"; no one can steal your identity.

(And once again, I shall pat myself on the back for yet another edition of my sparsely-read but well-loved log.)

My Olympic Experience

On Sunday, the games of Olympiad XXIX come to a close; how fitting it is that, exactly forty years removed from the Black Power salute by Tommie Smith and John Carlos on the medal podium in Mexico City, the ominous clouds of controversy hang over Beijing. As we all know, the preceding months were rife with protests calling for a free Tibet, a free Turkestan, freedom of the press, and so on; as well, China's human rights record and ecological sustainability floated to the surface.

Of course, all of it seemed to disappear from consciousness once the lavish display that was the opening ceremony signified the commencement of the Games. Suddenly, the "spirit of the Games" would not be sullied by talk of politics.

So I put my feet up and absorbed the fanfare. I'll admit, I am a fan of sporting events, and I did enjoy watching as much of the festivities as I did. What was most salient for me was the advertising, especially the fast-food giant serving as "official restaurant" of the games featuring future Olympic hopefuls dining happily on hamburgers and french fries, and the pharmaceutical company lauding its team of athletes despite the fact that these competitions are supposed to remain drug-free. I wonder how much time before national flags are abandoned outright in favour of corporate logos. I can see it now: "And here's Team Visa entering the stadium. They're sure to increase their medal haul from the last Games."

This year, we were beholden to two of the greatest athletic feats ever witnessed: first, the eight-gold-medal performance by one Michael Phelps of the United States, seven of those victories coming in world-record time; the other, the three gold medals of one Usain Bolt of Jamaica, also smashing world records in the process. Unfortunately, the latter was not without his controversy, as two former sprinters, Frankie Fredericks of Namibia and Ato Boldon of Trinidad & Tobago, decried young Bolt's seemingly presumptuous display of running; this was followed by Jacques Rogge, President of the International Olympic Committee, criticizing Mr. Bolt for his lack of sportsmanship after the race.

As a psychology major, these criticisms had me pondering biases in thinking. This morning, my thoughts were on whether or not Dr. Rogge, in his remarks, exhibited implicit racial bias. I wondered, had it been a White man accomplishing these feats and behaving in a similar manner, whether he would have focused so much of his energy on the athlete's lack of decorum. I mean, when Michael Phelps won his gold medals, he clenched his fists and released a mighty roar in celebration; could that not exemplify lack of propriety? Given what I've learned about the White Man's hegemony, I want to say Dr. Rogge, beyond his own awareness, insinuated that the young man ought to behave more like a White man; as a budding Deacon in the Church of Science, though, I'm hesitant to do so, as Mr. Fredericks and Mr. Boldon, two Black athletes, also had derogatory remarks for this sprinter, leading me to ask: Were the three exhibiting a similar bias, perhaps an age bias? Or did Dr. Rogge, in fact, exhibit racial bias, while the latter two, as former competitors, commented from such a perspective, as their words were directed at the race itself and not the aftermath? Having said all that, none of Mr. Bolt's competitors had any problem with his celebratory gestures, and we must bear in mind he's still a child, having just turned twenty-two, so how can we expect him to be prim and proper after winning three gold medals in the Olympics?

After two weeks, this tawdry display of "one world, one dream" will conclude. I wonder how many Chinese remained hungry so that these multi-million-dollar venues could be built, how many armed personnel were deployed to cloister the athletes and their fans from the ugly truths pervading the country, how many more dams and coal-fired plants were needed to power the stadia and media equipment, how many dissidents disappeared in the name of goodwill and camaraderie, and how much of this took a back seat to jingoism; in short, I wonder how much deeper we dug ourselves to fabricate such a display of pretense.

In closing, I would like to send my gratitude to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation for airing its piece on Tommie Smith and John Carlos and reminding me of a time when revolution was in the air; despite your glossing over the last four decades and accepting the fallacy that racism is a thing of the past, your piece helped serve as the impetus for my discourse today. Also, though I was not alive to see it, I wish to send my sincerest gratitude to Tommie Smith and John Carlos for sacrificing personal glory to strip the veneer off this show and reveal to us how things really are.

In hopes of rekindling the flame of peace, I present this tribute to days gone by:



Photo taken from Martina Manescalchi; actual photographer unknown

Prosperity

Genesis 41:15-31

And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.

And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, It is not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.

And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river:

And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fatfleshed and well favoured; and they fed in a meadow:

And, behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favoured and leanfleshed, such as I never saw in all the land of Egypt for badness:

And the lean and the ill favoured kine did eat up the first seven fat kine:

And when they had eaten them up, it could not be known that they had eaten them; but they were still ill favoured, as at the beginning, so I awoke.

And I saw in my dream, and, behold, seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good:

And, behold, seven ears, withered thin, and blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them:

And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: and I told this unto the magicians; but there was none that could declare it to me.

And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, The dream of Pharaoh is one: God hath shewed Pharaoh what he is about to do.

The seven good kine are seven years; and the seven good ears are seven years: the dream is one.

And the seven thin and ill favoured kine that came up after them are seven years; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind shall be seven years of famine.

This is the thing which I have spoken unto Pharaoh: What God is about to do he sheweth unto Pharaoh.

Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt:

And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land;

And the plenty shall not be known in the land by reason of that famine following; for it shall be very grievous.

Overwhelmed

We are in the throes of a pernicious pandemic, one that facilitates our collective doom, and I do not refer here to the AIDS virus or H5N1 influenza strain: I talk of ignorance, and I am worried if harbouring hope for its detumescence is futile. Should I just call it a day, switch on my television set and not give a fuck anymore?

Three stories that crossed my foveal vision serve as impetus for my writing this piece, particularly readers' responses to them. First was the Alberta Human Rights Commission's decision to dismiss a complain against Ezra Levant, publisher of the out-of-print Western Standard, who published the now infamous "Muhammad cartoon" in which the Muslim prophet sports a bomb for a turban. I have already remarked on the red herring Mr. Levant and his ilk threw our way in the guise of "freedom of speech", hoping our gorging on this delicious morsel distracts us from their fear of Muslims, thus another long-winded diatribe decrying such an act is superfluous. What perturbed me were some of the remarks left by readers. I can understand those who were raised in Islam and have since renounced their oppressive religious practices - I, myself, was not raised a Muslim, so I can only take their word for it as to how uncomfortable their experiences were - but to stand aside these purveyors of fear and loathing and cast stones eastward is worrisome, to say the least. Misogyny is not exclusive to Islam, nor even Christianity or Judaism: chauvinism exists under all racial, ethnic and religious umbrellas, as there are misogynistic Atheists, Agnostics, Africans, Chinese, you name it.

Next was the story of pro-Tibet protesters being removed from Tiananmen Square in Beijing, one of whom a Canadian. Again, I found myself obfuscated after reading some of the readers' remarks: they included such phrases as "this man has brought shame to Canada" and "the Olympic games are about enjoying the festivities and savouring the good will, not a platform for flapping your leftist clap-trap". Once upon a time, the Olympic Games served as an alternative to bloody warfare; soldiers dropped their weapons and competed in sporting events, whereas today, it is a showcase of who has the most money, while we, the people, exercise our patriotic duty to turn on, tune in and cop out.

Third, this morning, I learned of the riot erupting in a predominantly Hatian neighbourhood in Montreal early this morning in the wake of death of an eighteen-year-old boy by police bullets. Granted, there are some who make the effort to grasp the gravity of the situation and the tension within the community, but by and large, comments have either denounced the rioters as "thugs who should be treated as such" or cries of "fuck the police". This is how wars start and never end, when we cut lines through ourselves and choose one side over the other, rather than comprehend the totality of the situation and work our way towards a panacea. There is a reason why it is called a "happy medium": when all parties are willing to make sacrifices to ensure collective amelioration, everyone wins.

Finally, I cannot complete the discussion without relating these three stories, as they do not exist in isolation. I've heard, ad nauseam, the phrase "These have nothing to do with one another", and it's time we put a stop to it - on second thought, I am not here to tell you what you can or cannot say; my hope is that you are aware of what it is you are saying when you say it. The time has come to surrender the notion that people and events are mutually exclusive particles floating in space, and realize they are all connected to one another. These three stories not only highlight how powerful weapons fear and loathing are, but also the ignorance enthralling us.

How much longer can we remain oblivious to what is happening? Do you recall the cartoon parody of the closet door bursting open after the child stuffs his mess inside, hoping to expedite his cleaning duty? This is exactly what happens when we are quick to denounce one another as "others" because it is a convenient means by which to enervate our own cognitive dissonance.

Frankly, I don't know why I continue fighting. I know I vowed to let love conquer ignorance and fear, but I wonder if this disease is terminal, or if Mother Nature has no choice but to purge the virus from her system.

The Birth of the End

I almost forgot what happened on this day some sixty-three years ago. I suppose it's easy for me to let it slip from memory, as it transpired some thirty-four years before my conception. I read about it in great detail - from historians and those fortunate enough to live through it - and heard its name called many a time in the classroom. I still wonder how we, as a species, came to commit such an act. Most of all, I wonder what happened to that cry of "never again".

Already, sixty-three years have passed since members of the United States military piloted a B-29 dubbed "Enola Gay" over the city of Hiroshima and dropped an atomic bomb onto it; three days hence, and the exercise would be repeated, this time on the city of Nagasaki. Had I borne witness to something like that, I could not begin to describe it in words, for they would not do justice to the horrors experienced. I read about the vapourization and the sky on fire and the everlasting sickness. I also read of the widely-held belief that these acts spared a million more lives, that they were necessary to foment a surrender from the Japanese, beliefs to this day I have trouble ingesting. Perhaps that's cognitive dissonance in action for you: finding some means by which to justify such an egregious act so that one may sleep a little more soundly at night.

What did the last sixty-three years bring us? I would have hoped this sort of event would have humbled us a little, made us privy to the dangers of trying to harness such an awesome amount of power for personal gain; alas, things have become much worse. Soon enough, America wasn't the only kid on the block with this toy, so it needed more; and so, its counterpart had to do the same. I can't imagine the number of times we came within a hair's breadth of my generation never existing - the same sword of Damacles remains dangling above our heads to this day, for there are more kids on the block with the same set of toys, enough to kill us all several times over. Funny enough, these kids feel the need to tell the rest of the kids on the block they are not allowed to have toys of their own, and threaten to raise their fists and hurl stones at them should they dare try.

I can't believe I walked into this. Will it get any better soon?

As I write this, I am reminded of a discussion I had with someone I met at a peace rally in Toronto some three years back. She belonged to an organization working towards a better world for all, founded on more cooperative principles than the materialism in which we immerse ourselves today. She mentioned her party recognizes the right of North Korea to develop nuclear weapons as a means to defend itself from foreign imperialism. I suppose it was the party's response to the hypocrisy inherent in America's deciding who can and cannot have these toys; nonetheless, hearing those words emanate from such a sweet voice sent a chill up my spine.

Have we come to such a point when we're condoning the development of nuclear weapons because one side has to defend itself from the other? Were any of the surviving residents of Hiroshima or Nagasaki consulted before this decision was made? Or are we willing to brush aside the reality that is total annihilation as we stockpile more and more toys for ourselves? If this party is hoping to build a better world for all of us, why are nuclear weapons - nay, why are weapons on the agenda, period?

In sixty-three years, we seem to have learned nothing constructive from this atrocious happening; rather we've succeeded in scaring and shoving each other to the verge of our collective doom. I, for one, have grown weary of the rhetoric I hear and see on the news about the dangers of a nuclear North Korea, or of a nuclear Iran: what about a nuclear Israel? what about nuclear Pakistan and India? or a nuclear United States, the only nation to this date having actually used one of these weapons on civilian lives? It's high time we, as people, as citizens of this planet, denounced these weapons, regardless of whose hands they may lie, for everyone's hands are the "wrong hands".

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to start pontificating. I told myself I would refrain from doing so, though I have a tough time doing so when writing an emotionally-charged piece such as this one. I cannot speak for the residents of Hiroshima or Nagasaki, nor can I do the same for anyone ravaged by war, for I have been fortunate enough not to have one thrust upon me. I'm hoping it stays that way; I'm hoping, as well, that this awful spectre is lifted from the shoulders of those haunted by it.

It may be said that, sixty-three years ago, we witnessed the birth of the end. Sixty-three years hence, I hope we witness the birth of the end of this madness.

Mahalo.

Finding love where none is known to exist

This Friday afternoon past, I was stopped by a fellow in Allan Gardens (the east end of downtown Toronto, for those who may not be aware) when he noticed me picking up garbage in the park. "Why are you wasting your time doing that?" he asked. "You'll barely make a dent all by yourself. Don't worry about the [cigarette] filters and garbage: go to school and become a doctor." I mentioned I only wanted to contribute to the well-being of the community in whatever small way I could. "If you want to do this as a hobby, that's fine, but don't waste so much time on it," was his reply. We sat down and talked for a while. He told me of his youth in Kenya, and his time in Norway, and how he now makes his living as a custodian in a school. "When I was young, I never paid attention in school, and now I'm back, cleaning the shit in the toilets," he chortled. Despite his earlier sentiments, he did praise me for my kindness, and we continued chatting about this and that. There was one message he wished to convey, which he did time and time again during our encounter:

"More peace, more love, more unity!"

I must say, this is one of the pleasant by-products of getting out of my house and doing a little something for the community in which I live. About four weeks earlier, in the same park, while performing the same task, I was met by a gentleman in a wheelchair who asked if I could help him to the church. I wheeled him along the sidewalk, then around the back of the church to its side elevator, where one of the staff admitted him. Little did I know that, some time later, this man would meet me again in the park. We spent about a good half hour to an hour together as I wheeled him around the park. He spoke of his past job painting the insides of tanks and smokestacks, and of how eager he was to return to work once his legs were pain-free. There was one thing he said that stands out in my mind:

"I was told if someone has done something kind for you and you can't pay that person back, say a prayer for her/him."

Returning to this Friday past, as I entered the subway station to catch the train to meet some friends for dinner, I came across a gentleman seated at the bottom of the stairs, holding a cap in which to collect spare change from commuters. I reached into my pocket to see what coins I had, but decided instead to pull a five-dollar-bill from my wallet and hand it to him. "Thank you very much," he said as he looked reverently into my eyes, to which I returned a smile and nod. As I was making my way to the gate, I heard his voice call toward me, so I turned and saw him waving me over. I wasn't sure what he wanted to say to me, so I sat beside him and listened as he told me it was his fifty-first birthday. My heart sank: this is no way to commemorate a birthday, I thought. He went on to tell me how he could not find work in his hometown, as one of the factories closed and the other two had either fallen on hard times or, for some other reason, were not seeking new hires, thus prompting a trip to the big city to try his chances. Suffice to say, his experience here has not been a very pleasant one - he had been awake for almost a day and a half, and when he drifted off to sleep on a park bench, he was startled by police officers, who proceeded to handcuff him after bearing witness to the grumpy reaction one would normally expect from someone after being so rudely awaken - though that morning, someone was kind enough to buy him breakfast. He then mentioned he was saving some money to gain admission into the steam baths, for he would be afforded a warm bath, a shave and a night's rest. Finally, we parted ways, but before doing so, he left me with this:

"I hope to see you in Heaven one day."

These are the people we normally leave for dead. They are what we call "bums", "losers", "leeches" and the like. Time and again, we hear how they burden our society by asking us decent, hard-working folk for "handouts", rather than pull themselves up by the proverbial bootstraps.

I'll stop myself now before emarking on another of my sanctimonious diatribes. My point is, these so-called "losers" offered me some of the kindest words I have ever received in my time on this planet, and I did barely a thing for them. They left me speechless - paralyzed, even - for I was so grateful for their love, but felt unworthy of it, as I have not done nearly enough to deserve it.

If, indeed, there is such a place as Heaven, I hope there are seats awaiting these people, and all others, in the words of Anaïs Nin, "whose hearts have been hardened by misfortune", for it is they who need Heaven most of all.