In Pieces

Who am I? What are we? Where do the edges bleed into each other?

I find myself bewildered, pondering the truth of our identities restlessly every time the issue comes up. “That’s just the way I am.” An all-too-common scapegoat.

To say that we each have a unique identity is, so it would seem, an inadvertent subscription to the very unpractical concept of the human soul - that supposedly “unmappable” section of the human brain wherein lies the unexplainable things about us. I have always grappled with the concept of the unique identity. It seems to me that what we see as such is nothing more than a conglomerate of various preferences and patterns of behavior. Each of these things, when taken individually, has a perfectly explicable history or cause. So, where am “I”? Any time I try to locate it, it disappears - dissolves. It’s like trying to pluck a tiny speck of dirt out of a glass of milk with my fingers. Or like digging through sand to find that particular grain that makes them all a beach.

As I’ve grown into what might be considered the standard-issue college student, I’ve come to feel that it is impossible to qualify exactly what my role is here or what I’m studying. I call myself an English major. I no longer have a solid concept of what that entails. I’ve fallen into some strange new limbo, where studying “English” really means studying “Everything.” And the more I learn about Everything, it seems, the less I know about it and the less I understand myself. It feels fraudulent to even use the term. “Myself” is not someone who exists, who deserves isolating, who is able to stand on her own. I don’t know who I am when I’m alone, anymore.

Dear Jordan,

I don’t recall much from my short time in the brownstone house at 1666 Harrison Avenue, but I remember vividly the day we reunited. My mother had mentioned something about an old friend from Eastside Preschool coming to play, and I knew you had been my best friend, but that had been three years past and all the way across Salt Lake City. The only memory I had of you was the time Max Wolcott had insisted his birthday was August 42nd and we were the only two smart enough to know the difference.

We were six years old that day, but already I carried with me a lifetime of hurt. It had been half of my life since I’d seen you. Your daddy was gone, too, you said. I hadn’t known that. I tossed one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter cups in your lap and in turn got a dimpled smile that would stay with me forever.

Things I feel like I should apologize for (but know that it’s not really necessary):
1. Switching our chocolate milk cartons every day at lunch and drinking all of your before you had time to notice.
2. Going to my dad’s house for the weekend instead of accepting your sleepover invitation.
3. Telling my mom on the way to your funeral that I hoped I could have some of your books.

Sometimes, I wonder what six-year-old you would think if she met nineteen-year-old me. Then I stop, because the thoughts are never good. I hate that I have your preserved as innocent, I hate that I got older than you, grew out of you. I wanted to grow up with you. I comfort myself with the thought that we may have not even stayed friends. Sometimes, I like to pretend that that’s what happened: that we just grew apart and that you’re off somewhere unknown, becoming an adult just like I am.