identity

The chorus sings in my head.

What if God was one of us

Just a slob like one of us

Just a stranger on the bus

Trying to make his way home

Is it because it is Sunday? Sundays are fun-days, I hum. The unbidden memory of a photograph floats to the top of the pile: an Easter photo of my parents and siblings standing in front of the church wearing home sewn shirts. It was sometime in the early seventies. Pastels and wide lapels, the smell of eggs benedict lingers in the corner of these memories, a sunny Sunday brunch at a country club, where all the guests line up at the buffet. At the end a man in a tall chefs hat carves thick slices of ham off the bone and behind him in a field of sun drenched tables covered in white linen a young woman plucks a wistful tune from an enormous harp.

“I don’t like the donuts that are left.”
“Even the chocolate ones?”
“I like the type we get a church.”
“The glazed?”
“YES. Can I have a glazed donut when we get to church?”
“Why don’t you have part of a chocolate one now and we will see if there are any left when we get to church.”
“Chocolate?”
“Chocolate on chocolate.”
“O.K.”

Sitting in the small room, we are watching a video for adult Sunday school. A stream of faceless individuals proceeds to pull off a series of colored t-shirts. On the back of each shirt a single word, a label intended to identify the bearer. At first the words are occupations. Counselor. Cook. Artist.

“Will you identify yourself as an artist or a teacher?”
“I think it will depend on the situation.”
“It’s about how you think about yourself, what is most important to you art, or teaching?
“Art, I suppose.”
“Then you should identify yourself as an Artist first.”

Then the words become more… personal. Addict. Anorexic. I glance around the room to see if anyone is shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Everyone is watching. Finally the last in a string of shirts is taken off. A young man in his early twenties, nondescript, muscular; takes off his shirt to reveal his smooth white skin. Between his shoulder blades is the word name.

The narrator talks about the story of Jacob wrestling an angel. He tells how Jacob has lied about his name to deceive his father and steal his brother’s birthright. He talks about his struggle with the angle who asks Jacob his name.

“Who are you?” asks the angel.

A string of white bonnets turn their faces away from the scene before them. Their eyes are tightly closed, as if the image of the wrestlers is taking place in the minds eye, outside of time and space.

Shall we gather by the river, the beautiful, the beautiful the river

“It is about identity.”
“The realization of who you are comes at the end of a struggle.”
“It is about coming to terms with your character defects, finding acceptance.”
“It is about living in the moment.”

I am none of these things. There is a reason I am me and not Jacob. Not Buddha. Not Christ. As a child I played the game of semantics. If Jesus is the son of God, and I am a child of God, then I could be like Jesus. I can walk on water (if I wanted to), I can heal the sick (if my faith were strong enough), and I can change water into wine. (head leans back, gurgling, “Mmmnn wine.”

I hear someone talking about the work it takes to be yourself, that it is about the work and not about being yourself. It reminds me of the Buddha. I hear myself speaking.

“The Buddha was enlightened at the beginning of his life, not at the end. He then made the conscious decision to stay behind and teach, to work.”

I am a little boy in a photograph. My puffy, pale blue shirt glistens in the sunlight. My whole life is ahead of me. I smile an awkward smile. I stare at the photo in my mind. I study the memory of it. Who is this child?

"Daddy Can I have some pirate booty?”
“Sure honey, I will get it for you.”

Standing, I look at the photo one more time. I wonder, am I thinking about eggs benedict?