Mistaken Identity

Identity

/ˌīˈden(t)ədē/

noun

Definition of identity:

1.the fact of being who or what a person or thing is.

I remember the first time I got to fly first-class. The upgrade was unexpected, and so was the feeling. I felt liberated. Like Andy Dufresne at the end of The Shawshank Redemption. Arms spread wide; I was freed from my sentence—my prison cell with narrow armrests. Up to that point, I had only seen first-class in passing. And by “passing” I mean that slow, humiliating chain-gang walk back to coach. You always hope that, like the flight itself, the trip to your seat will be non-stop.

It never is.

There’s always that one gang member who can’t find a spot for his pickaxe in the overhead compartment. Brings the whole line to a halt. And then you’re just standing there. Might as well be locked in a pillory above the town square. You look up from your shackled feet and make eye-contact with the woman in seat B-2. She’s obviously someone important. Her sunglasses are too big, and her dog is too small—telltale signs of social and economic superiority. And just as you’re about to attempt an ill-advised icebreaker, the pickaxe slides into place, the chain pulls tight, and the shuffling continues.

But that was the past.

Snatched from obscurity, I was now elevated to a place of prominence (like Princess Diana or King Ralph). The committee had convened, and the decision was made. I was a free man.

But was I really ready for life on outside?

For starters, I didn’t look the part. No oversized sunglasses. No undersized pets. Just a hoodie and my Santa Cruz trucker hat (the cargo pants definitely didn’t help my case). Second, and more importantly, I didn’t feel the part. The airlines avoid the term “second-class,” but on any given plane, there are really only two sections and one of them is clearly labeled “first”. Instead, they try to sugar-coat it by calling it something high-end like “coach” (“flying Gucci” didn’t pass the focus group), but we know a knockoff when we see it.

My thoughts started to turn. Who am I kidding? I’m second-class on a good day. Most the time I’d barely qualify for the cargo hold. I don’t belong up in first-class. I belong back in Gucci.

Before I knew it, I began scheming how I might break parole just to get sent back. Maybe make a derogatory remark about the pilot’s mother, or something disparaging about handbag dogs. As Red from Shawshank put it, “All I want is to be back where things make sense. Where I don’t have to be afraid all the time.” And that place was coach. Back there, I knew the routine. The expectation. The flow. I mean, do you even need permission use the bathroom in first-class like you do in coach? Who knows? Not that I’d be able to go without say-so anyways.

But before I could act, a voice sounded over the PA system.

“Now boarding first-class on Flight 232 traveling non-stop to Chicago.”

The flight number and my ticket matched. I was almost disappointed. I looked at my ticket again.

I thought for a moment.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. I mean, the number does match. Printed right there. My name’s on it and everything. I thought it over a bit more as I watched a few first-class regulars enter the jet bridge.

I took a deep breath and stood. Shoulders back a little, I walked toward the gate—my confidence slowly grew with each step. Of course, the jury was still out on whether I’d need verbal permission to avoid a case of mile-high bladder paralysis, but things were looking up.

As I approached the customer service agent, I felt a little silly. But no longer because of some perceived inadequacy. I felt silly because I let such a thought grow in the first place. My confidence now all but restored, I handed the woman my boarding pass.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” She said politely with a matching smile. “I said we’re boarding first class.”

“What?”

“I said, we’re boarding first-class. We’ll be seating coach momentarily.”

She didn’t even look at my ticket. She just stood there. Like I had tried boarding with a Snicker’s wrapper.

I double-checked my boarding pass. She was so confident in her response, maybe she knew something I didn’t. After careful inspection, I determined it wasn’t a Snickers wrapper.

“Yeah, I have a first-class ticket. Name’s on it and everything.”

The agent’s demeanor quickly changed. It went from “please get lost” to “please don’t tell my boss” in a matter of seconds.

“Oh, I apologize. Yes of course. Let me scan that for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Again, I am so sorry for the mistake.”

I assured her it was okay. My bladder would take more convincing.

Brooklyn philosopher Jay-Z once said, “Identity is a prison you can never escape.” If identity is “the fact of being who or what a person or thing is,” then I suppose he’s right—there’s no escape (not even with the help of Rita Hayworth and a rock hammer). But is it fair to compare identity with a prison sentence? It can be.

The American Psychological Association (APA) defines identity as:

an individual’s sense of self defined by (a) a set of physical, psychological, and interpersonal characteristics that is not wholly shared with any other person and (b) a range of affiliations (e.g., ethnicity) and social roles. Identity involves a sense of continuity, or the feeling that one is the same person today that one was yesterday or last year (despite physical or other changes). Such a sense is derived from one’s body sensations; one’s body image; and the feeling that one’s memories, goals, values, expectations, and beliefs belong to the self. Also called personal identity.

Which is fine except for that “sense of self” part there at the beginning. Because “sense of self,” also according to the APA, is “an individual’s feeling of identity, uniqueness, and self-direction.” So, how we feel is the measure by which we determine who we are? This doesn’t seem wise. Particularly because feelings aren’t fact.  

Psychotherapist, author, and internationally-syndicated columnist, Dr. Barton Goldsmith writes, “Feelings aren’t facts.” See? Not making this stuff up. Goldsmith goes on to say, “There is no end to the amount of feeling (both positive and negative) that flows through our lives on a daily basis; the trick is to learn how to differentiate between feelings that are born out of our imagination and those that are real and verifiable.” And so, it is with identity—we must discern between fact and fiction. If there’s no end to the amount of feeling that flows through our lives on a daily basis, then our identity needs grounding. Especially given our propensity to give and receive labels.

PureMatter CEO and best-selling author, Bryan Kramer, writes, “We label others all the time. It helps us to compartmentalize situations and behaviors.” However, Kramer adds, “Labels end up conveying something absolute. That’s difficult to navigate away from once it’s decided.” So, let’s be sure that when it comes to such labels, particularly those spoken over us, we consider the source.

In my post “No Pants, Know Problems,” I suggested using the Socratic method to challenge unhelpful thoughts and beliefs. I’d like to suggest using it again. But this time, I’d like to focus on one particular question: Did someone pass this thought/belief to me? If so, are they a reliable source? Because “questioning the source” is not only a useful therapeutic tool, but it’s arguably the oldest.

In Genesis 3:11 (NIV), after the apple, but before the finger-pointing, God asked Adam, “Who told you that you were naked?” Now, I don’t think God asked the question because he didn’t know the answer. I think He asked it because He wanted Adam to consider the source. It’s like God was saying, “You were doing fine earlier. What happened between then and now? Who told you this? Who told you that you have something to hide?” And after thousands of years, not much has changed.

In a world full of hurtful words, mixed-messages, and lies, I believe God continues to lovingly ask us similar questions today—questions like, “Who told you that you’re worthless? Who told you that you won’t amount to anything? Who told you that you’ll never get married? Who told you that you’re destined to make the same mistakes as your parents? Who told you that you’re not good enough? Who told you that you’re not smart enough? Who told you that you’re not attractive enough?” And not because He doesn’t know. Rather, He asks because He wants us to see the label for what it is—a lie. He’s pointing out that the source of that message is no longer reliable. And He invites us to adopt an identity of truth.

Because where there’s truth, there’s freedom. And freedom is a wonderful thing. But perhaps Red said it best after he himself embraced a new identity as a free man: “I find I’m so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.” The same excitement and joy are ours for the taking.  

So, the next time someone puts a label on you, consider the source. The next time someone says you’re something you’re not, separate fact from feeling. And the next time someone calls you “coach,” be sure to show them your first-class ticket.

Psalms 139:13-18

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you” (ESV).