1:49 a.m. 2001-04-03
Here is the phrase I wrote in fluorescent green on a yellow piece of paper at six this morning when I woke from near sleep:
I am an identity artist.
Either it's mine or it isn't, but it means something. And I hope it's mine, because I want it to be. It goes with designing clothes for dark futures.
I think I'm back to some semblance of comfort now. I was disconcerted by the assignment I had to do for class. This was the assignment: while pretending to be someone you don't know, follow someone else you don't know for twenty minutes. It's for the class where we read that Paul Auster book I was talking about.
So I'd forgotten about it until 11:30 tonight, and then I remembered. I figured about the only thing I could do would be to go to Walmart and follow someone around there, because they'd be open, anyway. So I went out in the cold to the car and drove to Walmart.
Charlottesville, in case you don't know, has almost the most depressing Walmart in the world. At least, it's the most depressing Walmart I've ever seen.
Normally, I like Walmart. I don't like that they stand for the ruin of small businesses and the takeover by faceless mass suburban culture, really. I just like how much stuff there is.
Walmart is filled to the brim with things. Bright, shiny, appealing things. Things that I want and you want and we all want, all us Americans. Things for everybody, from people who really don't have much money to people like me, who are perfectly well off. It's this great community of stuff -- this gathering-place of all the newness we use to define our lives. It's bright and clean and busy and always open. It has what you need. It can fill the holes in your life. Whatever you were missing, you see, they probably have it. It is comforting. I let it be comforting. I give in, and it is wonderful. I relax into the idea that here, no matter who I am, it's okay. I'm an American. A person. A person who needs things, and they have those things for me, just like they have things for everybody else, and it's all okay.
But this Walmart is not like that. This Walmart has no bright cleanness to make up for the corporate badness. This is a Walmart of lost people. It's dingy. Dim. Not all the lights are at peak brightness, not all the floors are at peak cleanness. There are boxes stacked in the aisles. Things disarranged on the shelves. They have fewer products. Places in the store are empty. Devoid of brands. Devoid of boxed happiness. And the people -- the people of this Walmart are lost. Unhappy. They aren't comforted by being there. They aren't getting what they needed or wanted. It's too expensive. It isn't what they wanted to get. It isn't right. It doesn't fit. It doesn't fill their lives, make them happy, give them success, give them home. They are angry. Disappointed. Loud. Sad. They aren't the faces of prosperous America.
So this Walmart makes me sad. I don't like to go there. I can't face what it tells me too well.
But tonight I went, because I had to. I decided on the way that I was going to be Byron Wilson. Byron Wilson is one of a set of twins. His brother's name is James. I do not know the Wilson twins. They are several years older than me. Older enough that James (or maybe Byron, I'm not sure) was my substitute teacher twice. But even before that, I knew who they were. I don't know how I knew of them first. I just remember that there was a time when I didn't, and then there was a time when I did. And from the moment I did know of them, I was fascinated with them.
They are tall young men. Very very thin. So thin as to appear extremely fragile. They are fragile. They hold themselves hunched over a little, from a lifetime of hiding themselves, of being afraid of things, Byron more than James (or James more than Byron).
I only surmise that they have been afraid of things. I do not know.
Their skin is pale. Maybe the whitest I've ever seen on someone. Almost blue where the veins are. Delicate skin. Fragile skin. Their hair is black. A bowl cut of straight, straight, fine blackbrown hair over their high foreheads and their large, silent brown eyes. Their mouths are slightly wide, soft-lipped. Their noses are straight and just a little long. And their hands. Their hands are beautiful. Long, long, slender hands and long, delicate fingers. Nails trimmed close. Fingers nervous, silent, quick. Clumsy.
They are clumsy. Because they are tremendously, painfully shy. The shyest people I have probably ever met. (But Byron more than James. Or James more than Byron. The one who's the teacher, or was going to be, is of course less shy.) I barely ever heard them speak. They of the long necks and pale skin and blackbrown hair.
Byron worked at a video store. Not the video store close to my house. But the one I wished we could visit, because he worked there. I always hoped it would be he whose line I would end up in. Often I did not, because I was too nervous. I didn't want to put him to trouble. I didn't want to make him nervous. He would mess up when he was nervous and then he'd get more nervous. I didn't want to do that to him.
James, as I said, was my substitute teacher once, in spanish. The class was horrible to him, as classes are to substitute teachers. He seemed to take it all right, but he was very meek. He didn't speak any spanish. They do that to young substitute teachers. I knew who he was already at the time, and the shock and amazement of seeing that it was he who walked in the door, he who wrote "Mr. Wilson" on the board, he who nervously half-leaned, half-sat against the edge of the desk and asked us what we had been doing and was there any work we could do -- it was fantastic. He said almost nothing the whole time. I said almost nothing the whole time too.
I tried to be helpful. I tried to communicate to him, somehow, that I knew him. I wanted him to have known me. Somehow. But I knew that I just seemed like another girl-student. Full of concrete and sun and backpacks and notebook paper. No moonlight thing like he was. I wanted to ask him some question. To ask him if he would substitute for us again. For any of my classes again. To ask him what he was. To ask him what I was. But I didn't know anything to say. It would have been weird. I know it would have.
After that I always hoped he would turn up my substitute again, walking so quietly and nervously in and writing "Mr. Wilson" on the board, and once he did, for half a period, in biology. But all I could say to him was "did you substitute for us in spanish once?" even though I knew he had, and he said he couldn't remember or be sure.
All I've learned about them, really, from an unexpected source (a teacher friend), is that they went to the same high school I did, somewhere between 6 and ten years before I did. They were frightfully teased. Bullied. She said that she'd felt awful for them. But that there seemed to be nothing that could be done.
I don't know where they are now. I haven't seen one of them in several years. I hope James is a teacher now. And that Byron is okay too. I hope they are not lost. I still hope I may contact them, somewhere, some time. I love them, I think, even though I don't know them. Or maybe not.
So tonight I decided that I was going to pretend to be Byron. Just as I parked a couple, a boy and a girl, he tall and j. crew, she short and cute -- a tennis player, probably, got out of an SUV near me. They locked their car. I followed them. In the store they looked at vacuums, cds, school supplies. They bought nothing. They were very affectionate. They might have known I was following them. I can't say I was really successful at being Byron. I forgot and pretended to be looking at women's clothes once and when I remembered who I was I panicked. And I kept biting my fingernail, which is what I do when I'm trying to look as if I'm not doing anything in particular, and not what Byron would do. But what did get out of the exercise was the sense of feeling overwhelmingly nervous. Almost on the verge of panic. It was difficult to keep calm. I think we may have been the only customers in the store (which closed, incidentally, before the couple was done shopping). By the end of the exercise, I was really very apprehensive. I don't know what it means.
But I'm home now. And less nervous, anyway. And have just written a very long entry about things that are connected but don't seem so. Am I an identity artist? I don't know.
I hope Byron and James are well. I wish that tonight I could send them a dream in which they could be wonderful water-things, colored with shiny stripes and scales and fins, streaking through the water with precision and dexterity, laughing at their mastery of the sheer art of it all.
Here is the phrase I wrote in fluorescent green on a yellow piece of paper at six this morning when I woke from near sleep:
I am an identity artist.
Either it's mine or it isn't, but it means something. And I hope it's mine, because I want it to be. It goes with designing clothes for dark futures.
I think I'm back to some semblance of comfort now. I was disconcerted by the assignment I had to do for class. This was the assignment: while pretending to be someone you don't know, follow someone else you don't know for twenty minutes. It's for the class where we read that Paul Auster book I was talking about.
So I'd forgotten about it until 11:30 tonight, and then I remembered. I figured about the only thing I could do would be to go to Walmart and follow someone around there, because they'd be open, anyway. So I went out in the cold to the car and drove to Walmart.
Charlottesville, in case you don't know, has almost the most depressing Walmart in the world. At least, it's the most depressing Walmart I've ever seen.
Normally, I like Walmart. I don't like that they stand for the ruin of small businesses and the takeover by faceless mass suburban culture, really. I just like how much stuff there is.
Walmart is filled to the brim with things. Bright, shiny, appealing things. Things that I want and you want and we all want, all us Americans. Things for everybody, from people who really don't have much money to people like me, who are perfectly well off. It's this great community of stuff -- this gathering-place of all the newness we use to define our lives. It's bright and clean and busy and always open. It has what you need. It can fill the holes in your life. Whatever you were missing, you see, they probably have it. It is comforting. I let it be comforting. I give in, and it is wonderful. I relax into the idea that here, no matter who I am, it's okay. I'm an American. A person. A person who needs things, and they have those things for me, just like they have things for everybody else, and it's all okay.
But this Walmart is not like that. This Walmart has no bright cleanness to make up for the corporate badness. This is a Walmart of lost people. It's dingy. Dim. Not all the lights are at peak brightness, not all the floors are at peak cleanness. There are boxes stacked in the aisles. Things disarranged on the shelves. They have fewer products. Places in the store are empty. Devoid of brands. Devoid of boxed happiness. And the people -- the people of this Walmart are lost. Unhappy. They aren't comforted by being there. They aren't getting what they needed or wanted. It's too expensive. It isn't what they wanted to get. It isn't right. It doesn't fit. It doesn't fill their lives, make them happy, give them success, give them home. They are angry. Disappointed. Loud. Sad. They aren't the faces of prosperous America.
So this Walmart makes me sad. I don't like to go there. I can't face what it tells me too well.
But tonight I went, because I had to. I decided on the way that I was going to be Byron Wilson. Byron Wilson is one of a set of twins. His brother's name is James. I do not know the Wilson twins. They are several years older than me. Older enough that James (or maybe Byron, I'm not sure) was my substitute teacher twice. But even before that, I knew who they were. I don't know how I knew of them first. I just remember that there was a time when I didn't, and then there was a time when I did. And from the moment I did know of them, I was fascinated with them.
They are tall young men. Very very thin. So thin as to appear extremely fragile. They are fragile. They hold themselves hunched over a little, from a lifetime of hiding themselves, of being afraid of things, Byron more than James (or James more than Byron).
I only surmise that they have been afraid of things. I do not know.
Their skin is pale. Maybe the whitest I've ever seen on someone. Almost blue where the veins are. Delicate skin. Fragile skin. Their hair is black. A bowl cut of straight, straight, fine blackbrown hair over their high foreheads and their large, silent brown eyes. Their mouths are slightly wide, soft-lipped. Their noses are straight and just a little long. And their hands. Their hands are beautiful. Long, long, slender hands and long, delicate fingers. Nails trimmed close. Fingers nervous, silent, quick. Clumsy.
They are clumsy. Because they are tremendously, painfully shy. The shyest people I have probably ever met. (But Byron more than James. Or James more than Byron. The one who's the teacher, or was going to be, is of course less shy.) I barely ever heard them speak. They of the long necks and pale skin and blackbrown hair.
Byron worked at a video store. Not the video store close to my house. But the one I wished we could visit, because he worked there. I always hoped it would be he whose line I would end up in. Often I did not, because I was too nervous. I didn't want to put him to trouble. I didn't want to make him nervous. He would mess up when he was nervous and then he'd get more nervous. I didn't want to do that to him.
James, as I said, was my substitute teacher once, in spanish. The class was horrible to him, as classes are to substitute teachers. He seemed to take it all right, but he was very meek. He didn't speak any spanish. They do that to young substitute teachers. I knew who he was already at the time, and the shock and amazement of seeing that it was he who walked in the door, he who wrote "Mr. Wilson" on the board, he who nervously half-leaned, half-sat against the edge of the desk and asked us what we had been doing and was there any work we could do -- it was fantastic. He said almost nothing the whole time. I said almost nothing the whole time too.
I tried to be helpful. I tried to communicate to him, somehow, that I knew him. I wanted him to have known me. Somehow. But I knew that I just seemed like another girl-student. Full of concrete and sun and backpacks and notebook paper. No moonlight thing like he was. I wanted to ask him some question. To ask him if he would substitute for us again. For any of my classes again. To ask him what he was. To ask him what I was. But I didn't know anything to say. It would have been weird. I know it would have.
After that I always hoped he would turn up my substitute again, walking so quietly and nervously in and writing "Mr. Wilson" on the board, and once he did, for half a period, in biology. But all I could say to him was "did you substitute for us in spanish once?" even though I knew he had, and he said he couldn't remember or be sure.
All I've learned about them, really, from an unexpected source (a teacher friend), is that they went to the same high school I did, somewhere between 6 and ten years before I did. They were frightfully teased. Bullied. She said that she'd felt awful for them. But that there seemed to be nothing that could be done.
I don't know where they are now. I haven't seen one of them in several years. I hope James is a teacher now. And that Byron is okay too. I hope they are not lost. I still hope I may contact them, somewhere, some time. I love them, I think, even though I don't know them. Or maybe not.
So tonight I decided that I was going to pretend to be Byron. Just as I parked a couple, a boy and a girl, he tall and j. crew, she short and cute -- a tennis player, probably, got out of an SUV near me. They locked their car. I followed them. In the store they looked at vacuums, cds, school supplies. They bought nothing. They were very affectionate. They might have known I was following them. I can't say I was really successful at being Byron. I forgot and pretended to be looking at women's clothes once and when I remembered who I was I panicked. And I kept biting my fingernail, which is what I do when I'm trying to look as if I'm not doing anything in particular, and not what Byron would do. But what did get out of the exercise was the sense of feeling overwhelmingly nervous. Almost on the verge of panic. It was difficult to keep calm. I think we may have been the only customers in the store (which closed, incidentally, before the couple was done shopping). By the end of the exercise, I was really very apprehensive. I don't know what it means.
But I'm home now. And less nervous, anyway. And have just written a very long entry about things that are connected but don't seem so. Am I an identity artist? I don't know.
I hope Byron and James are well. I wish that tonight I could send them a dream in which they could be wonderful water-things, colored with shiny stripes and scales and fins, streaking through the water with precision and dexterity, laughing at their mastery of the sheer art of it all.
Labels: identity, liminality, memories, spirit of the age
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