Two conversations and the PQfEW that sparked their memories.
1. Between myself and my first love, a year or more after the romance had ended and the rupture it left had started to close painfully together:
I don’t remember the context – perhaps I remarked on how much he’d changed over the last year, how he’d gone from fervently religious to agnostic and back again. He said he felt that he was the same person he had always been. I’m me, he insisted. There are always certain characteristics that define me. I’m loyal. Hard-working. Passionate.
I didn’t know how to disagree aloud, but I could see cracks in these identities he had chosen. Loyal to what, at whose expense? Passionate when and at what cost?
2. Many years later, I was drinking sour ale and waiting for a table with a former flame – the flame part was already former to this occasion of waiting. We regaled one another with tales of our shared history, of what we’d been and done since then. He said, I think you’re the same. Older. More grown-up. But the same.
I said I wouldn’t like to think so; I didn’t like who I was then. I didn’t add whether I thought he was also the same. There were some continuous threads: same cockiness, an occasional startling tenderness. I remembered those characteristics from our adolescence, but in truth I felt that the object of my infatuation from so long ago was not relevant to the person drinking sour ale with me that night.
He said, you think there’s nothing in us that stays the same? That we’re endlessly changing from the forces external to us? He didn’t say it quite like that; I’m sure he said it more eloquently and with a note of tender derision.
I thought, because it seemed like so much blasphemy to say that there was no kernel that is me. Am I nothing? Just a bundle of repeated behaviors and related images? But for the sake of argument I said yes, there is nothing. I may or may not have added, the sameness that you see in me is what you desire and fear to be the same.
3. And then there is Trinh Minh-ha saying the same thing more beautifully and with more hope. She says,
A critical difference from myself means that I am not i, am within and within i. I/i can be I or i, you and me both involved. We (with capital W) sometimes include(s), other times exclude(s) me. You and I are close, we intertwine; you may stand on the other side of the hill once in a while, but you may also be me, while remaining what you are and what i am not. The differences made between entities comprehended as absolute presences – hence the notions of pure origin and true self – are an outgrowth of a dualistic system of thought peculiar to the Occident.
So then, that idea that I am myself and not more or less than that – it is just an idea. One way of comprehending the incomprehensible. She says,
“I” is, therefore, not a unified subject, a fixed identity, or that solid mass covered with layers of superficialities one has gradually to peel off before one can see its true face. “I” is, itself, infinite layers.
And if so, there is no need to limit oneself to one self. No need to find the self, in that sense that it is something concrete that got lost or covered in dust. No need to hang onto the same self that you projected when you didn’t know what that self could or ought to be. A web, infinitely built and rebuilt, not sediment. No kind of rock, precious or not.
Quotes from Woman, Native, Other.