Monday, September 22, 2003
Getting Carded
Personal identity is a tricky thing. I’d like to think that I have a handle on who I am, but in a pinch, if I lose track somehow, I could just check my wallet and all the details would fall into place: I’m a penurious inactive attorney licensed to drive passenger vehicles in California (corrective lenses), who has health insurance and a membership in the Presidio YMCA and who shops at three different supermarket chains. But for those times when the foregoing doesn’t help me figure out who I really am, I maintain a running file of supplementary background data - a sort of longitudinal review of who I’ve been over the years. And by “running file” I mean the bottom of my underware drawer, where my old ID cards are scattered around beneath my various unmentionables and headrags. So on those occasions when I choose to heed the ancient dictum “semper ube sububes,” I sometimes find myself confronted with glaring evidence of past lives and of selves who have ceased to be or who have been absorbed into an ostensibly higher, more evolved self. They peek at me from under the boxer briefs. And now I’m going to peek back.
The most benign of these are the “non-face” cards - those without a photo. My bar membership cards from ‘97 (brown print) and ‘98 (blue print, pasteboard card) are both stamped “active,” I’ve lost ‘99 and ‘01 but 2000 (tan) and 2002 (blue again) both read “inactive.” I can use them to track my growth from being a litigator to being a person. They’re followed by an old leftover business card from my tenure as a development officer - it must have been from ‘98 because it’s for the Oakland - not the “East Bay” - SPCA; it also recalls to my mind one reason why I left that sinecure: there’s no card for me as “Campaign Director.” Even though I spent 14 months in that slot I never got even that modest gesture of recognition. Then there’s my old Blue Cross card from when Kel’s insurance was cheaper than my own, and an old library card (undated but less than 10 years old); a membership card for Le Video, where I always wish I’d gone whenever I’m at Ballbuster but where I never actually go; and of course my personal favorite non-face card: the social security card I got in the fourth grade, laminated at a post office and trimmed with the kitchen scissors. My signature on it is thick and clumsy, each letter painstakingly enscribed in the painfully uncoordinated script of my early youth. It’s my oldest card, and it does really take me back to see my writing from so long ago. Everything was such an effort in those days - even signing my name.
Then there are the face cards. They’re more fun, or sometimes scarier - but they definitely have more to tell me.
* College ID, issued 8/31/82: Dark hair flops over a clear forehead; no glasses; a favorite cream-colored oxfordcloth shirt unbuttoned at the collar exposes dark pectoral thatching; my full beard is neatly trimmed, my moustache is tidy and crisp and dashing. I smile openly, ingenuously, a freshman on the brink of his future, dizzy with the future on which I am embarking.
* Driver’s License, issued 1/14/83: My hair is a little longer, it droops more wispily over my forehead. The beard is bushier on the sides but seems unflatteringly thinner around my chin for some reason. I wear a favorite stuart plaid shirt and my smile seems broad and genuine, as if I’m actually enjoying myself there at the DMV. It’s one of my better smiles but not a very flattering photo. I have learned to entertain myself. This could eventually get me into trouble but I seem to be okay with that.
* Dining Service card, issued 9/83: beardless, but with a slight shadow of whiskers; hair cut shorter and arranged more tidily on top of my head. Hairline has officially begun to recede. Wearing a forgettable red t-shirt and the barest hint of a smirk; my jaws are clenched and my eyes are clear and piercing. I appear at an angle, leaning to the left about 15 degrees; this creates a somewhat disoriented impression, as if I’m not really part of the ongoing program, or perhaps like I’ve got my own program - a personal secret. One of my best photos ever. I can see myself in it.
* Driver’s License, issued 4/13/87: unremittingly hideous. Hair is getting longer but looks greasy and is combed straight back, revealing a lofty Walken-esque forehead that gleams preternaturally. Eyes seem blurry and unfocused. A creepy enigmatic grin is smeared across my lips. My shoulders are angled and I turn slightly to face the camera; the look on my face is introspective to the verge of incoherence. I wear a garrish tie-die that accentuates the paleness of my skin. A flaw in the photo next to my mouth makes me appear to have an open sore or ghastly scar. On this card I have crossed out my LA address and written in my new SF address. Each letter of my name is carefully distinguished in this signature. I am groping for identity - without much apparent success.
* Sherman Oaks Health Spa membership card, issued 6/24/87: what a difference two months have made. My hair, still combed back, falls to near my shoulders in gentle waves; a full beard and moustache reappear, thick but neatly trimmed. White t-shirt, head coyly cocked, wide smile, eyes frank and focused. My best ID picture, even though I hated that gym. I’m ready to see - and more importantly, to be seen. A man of action. I aspire to that personality to this day.
* Law School ID, issued 8/87. Shoulders squared to the camera, beardless but with a dusky dusting of whiskers to be shaved, hair brushed back, forehead broad and luminous. Enormous unflattering glasses frame an accusatory glare - a pugnacious mug for a serious guy. I wear a purple and black plaid shirt with flamboyant multicolored stitched rosettes, open at the collar; my chest hair curls up darkly. I’m very slim and seem to lean forward with a hardheaded cynicism. Utterly unsmiling, I look toughminded, somewhat sad. I am ready to confront the unknown and kick its ass. I am trying to fool somebody, possibly myself.
* Driver’s License, issued 3/19/91: The glasses are gone again. The picture is faded; it’s hard to get a good read on myself. Hair still combed back, my forehead now curves all the way up to the top of the crown of my head. I lean a little to the left and the camera angle is curiously low, looking up from just below the level of my cleanly-shaven chin. My hair bells out around the sides of my head. My lips are pursed; my eyes focus on a point slightly up and to the left, as if I’m concentrating on something else in order to get through an ordeal. I wear indistinguishable dark clothes and my skin seems very pale. My signature is tiny, tidy, mainly illegible. I look like someone just realizing that he’s lost, still trying to deny it even as reality begins to settle heavily upon him.
* CostCo card, issued 7/92: My goofiest picture (among the picture cards - though it doesn’t hold a candle to the college yearbook). I stand angled to the right a little and glance back slightly toward the camera, and lean back a little in a posture that begins to qualify as “rollicking.” I wear big ugly glasses and a skinny, neatly trimmed beard that hugs my jawline. My smile is wide, open and cheerful; my hair has so far receded that it hardly shows up in the photo; my forehead rises majestically, reflecting all light from all sources until it curves back into shadow. I wear a t-shirt with a barely-visible eco-logo on it. It’s like a headshot for a stand-up comic. Previously embarassing, it’s now one of my favorite photos. I look like a fun guy with the world on a string.
* Driver’s License, issued 3/10/95: Very uptight. Hair is pretty short and very neat, combed back. No glasses. Shoulders square to the camera, head square on the shoulders. Jaws clenched, unsmiling. Forehead huge and unfurrowed, a haven for seething ideas and strategies barely hinted at by my hooded, emotionless gaze. Cleanshaven and wearing a buttondown shirt, silk tie (a bit askew), and tan raincoat. It is a photo that was meant to say, “Officer, I’m not the droid you’re looking for.” I look like I could open a bottle of pepsi with my ass. I’m a big sourpuss. I have learned to deny my impending burnout.
Looking back on all of these, I see so many phases of myself, an ebb and flow of positive and negative traits, which continue to jockey for position in my persona even today. And as for jockeying for position, don’t even ask for a rundown of the other contents of that drawer. Personal development I can share, but my undergarments actually make for rather dull reading.
